


Blue Moon and Black Night

by Kenyastarflight



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cosmos deserves to be the hero for once, Gen, Halloween, Horror, Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenyastarflight/pseuds/Kenyastarflight
Summary: After a strange attack in the Appalachian Mountains, Hound begins to undergo a terrifying transformation... and it's up to Cosmos to figure out how to stop it before the next full moon...  Originally written and posted on FFN in 2014.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was spawned by a throwaway comment during an RP with a friend, where two of our characters joked that Hound liked the wilderness so much because he turned into a werewolf on the full moon. The idea never went away, and eventually evolved into this fic. Enjoy my lame attempt at a horror story.
> 
> The radio broadcast Hound listens to in the first chapter is Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" radio drama from 1938, which allegedly caused a panic among its listeners who thought it was an actual news account of an alien attack. The scale of the panic is disputed to this day, but it goes to show that entertainment has always caused controversy.

"… _so goodbye, everybody, and remember the terrible lesson you learned tonight. That grinning, glowing, globular invader of your living room is an inhabitant of the pumpkin patch, and if your doorbell rings and nobody's there, that was no Martian – it's Halloween."_

"Heh… classic," Hound chuckled, and switched off his radio. It wasn't really Halloween – they had a month to go before that holiday rolled around – but one of the local radio stations had decided to kick off the month with a replay of Orson Welles' _War of the Worlds_ radio broadcast. And while not quite the connoisseur of Earth culture that Jazz and Tracks were, Hound still enjoyed sampling the entertainment this planet had to offer, even if it was from decades ago.

As he slowed down to navigate a twist in the road ahead, he wondered if the replay of the broadcast would start a panic similar to the one that had gripped the country back when the radio play had first aired. Somehow he doubted it. Humans today were far more cynical, and would write off the idea of Martians as ridiculous or a practical joke. That, and fewer people listened to the radio anymore – he wouldn't be surprised if he was the only being tuning in to the broadcast tonight.

The road veered into another tight turn, and he slowed down even further. Night had fallen completely by this point, and though a full moon shone in the sky overhead it was still tricky trying to navigate this winding road through the forest. The close-growing trees looming on each side made him feel as if he were enclosed in shadow, and his headlights seemed to do little to penetrate the blackness. And the fact that it had been hours since he'd seen another vehicle or a sign of habitation, human or otherwise, only made the night seem all the more lonely… and threatening.

 _Okay, knock it off, Hound,_ he told himself with a slight chuckle. _You're not a sparkling, you're a big 'bot now. The worst you'll run into out here is a bear, maybe a cougar, and they're not about to attack an Autobot._

Still, it was one thing to tell himself that, quite another to believe it. Not for the first time, he wished he'd taken Jazz's advice to take backup with him on this mission. Some company would have been nice – Bluestreak or Wheeljack, or even Cosmos…

Too late for that now, of course, but at least he was done with what he came out to do – find the ship that had crashed in the Appalachian Forest, confirm if it was Cybertronian in origin or not, check for survivors, and tag it for the recovery crews to retrieve. That was over and done with, and now he could head back to their temporary base in Richmond. If they required him to come back and help with the retrieval… well, at least that would be in full daylight.

It wasn't that he was a coward – far from it. But there was something odd about these woods, an ancient presence in the very trees that seemed to watch him and disapprove of his very presence. It might only be the first of October, but this seemed a fitting enough place for a cadre of Autobots to spend the month known for the supernatural and mystic.

 _Not that there was anything mystic about that shipwreck,_ he thought with another slight chuckle, mostly to try and shake off his unsettled feeling. _Just an empty escape pod. Must've been jettisoned by accident, or whoever was inside bailed already. In that case I guess we'd better be careful…_

A flash of movement caught his optical sensors, and he slowed to a stop. What was that? Hopefully just his overactive imagination…

There. He hadn't imagined it – something had moved in the trees. Not just an animal either, but moonlight reflected off metal. Immediately he shut off his headlights, shifting to robot mode and peering into the darkness. It looked as if he'd found the escape pod's missing occupant.

"You there!" he called out. "This is Autobot Hound of Optimus Prime's forces! Come out with your hands where I can see them!"

Branches crackled as whoever-it-was plunged further into the trees. Hound gusted a sigh and stepped off the road, moving to follow the retreating form. So they were going to make this difficult, were they? At least they hadn't started fighting right off the bat – which most likely meant that it wasn't a Decepticon. Maybe a neutral, or an Autobot who was so badly spooked that he wasn't about to take Hound's words at face value.

_Hound to base, come in._

_Roger-dodger, Hound,_ Jazz responded. _'Sup?_

_I think I've found whoever was in that ship that went down. Requesting backup to apprehend them._

_Can do. Sendin' Blue an' Windcharger out to help bring 'im in. Look like a Decepticon at all?_

_I haven't gotten a good look at them yet. They haven't started shooting, that's a good sign…_

More snapping and rustling sounded behind him, and he whirled, gun raised. The mech wasn't trying to flee – they had been moving deeper into the woods and around Hound, trying to ambush him from behind.

"Don't move or I'll shoot!" Hound called out. "We can do this quietly and save both of us a lot of pain."

A deep-throated snarl was his response, and a stooped, hulking form leaped out of the trees. Its black-and-gunmetal plating was scratched and dented, and one deep-violet optic was spider-webbed with cracks. It was bipedal with powerful arms and a wicked-looking cannon mounted on one shoulder, but otherwise it looked purely monstrous – faceplates sculpted into a long lupine muzzle, jutting metallic fangs instead of normal dental plates, fingers ending in pointed tips like claws, and legs that bent the wrong way at the knee joints. This wasn't a normal Cybertronian – this was some kind of monster… a Horrorcon, if such a thing existed.

"Scrap," Hound cursed, and fired.

The creature yipped as the blast hit the left side of its chest, and it shook itself like a wet turbohound. Then, as if the blast had been little more than an annoyance, it gathered itself to spring. Hound squeezed off another shot, trying for the head – if a blast to the chest hadn't worked, maybe he could at least hit the CPU…

The monster-mech launched itself at him, completely ignoring the blasts of his weapon. Hound dropped the gun, cursing its uselessness, and fought back as best he could, trying to jam his fingers into the cables and tubing at the neck. Claws and fangs squealed against his plating, stripping off ribbons of paint and leaving deep scratches, but otherwise the beast was eerily silent as it bit and scratched at him. It wasn't just trying to fight him off – it was intent on killing him.

 _Hound, ya there?_ Jazz shouted over the comm. _Roger me, Wilco! What's goin' on over there?_

 _I'm under attack!_ Hound responded. _Tell Bluestreak and Windcharger to step on it!_

_Right on it! Guess it was a 'Con after all!_

_I'd appreciate it if you stopped talking! I need to focus on-_

Too late. Jazz's distraction gave the creature the opening it needed to clamp its fangs into Hound's shoulder joint. The scout screamed as powerful pistons in the monster-mech's jaws drove its teeth deep into the metal, crushing and tearing, sending oil and hydraulic fluid spraying onto the ground and foliage around them.

_HOUND!_

The roar of engines had never sounded so welcome to the scout's audials, nor had the whine of Bluestreak's ion cannons. The monster-mech snarled again, hunching low over Hound's prone form as if reluctant to leave its prey, but another round of fire finally sent it loping off into the forest, fluids still dripping from its jaws. By the time the Autobots charged into the trees and reached Hound's side, it had vanished.

"Hound, are you all right?" Bluestreak shouted. "Oh Primus, you're not all right… just hold still, we'll call Ratchet, he'll come and get you all fixed up – oh Primus, there's oil! Windcharger, he's leaking!"

"Then shut your trap and try to stop it!" Windcharger snapped, kneeling down and grabbing Hound's shoulder in an effort to pinch off the leaking tubing. "Or go find that thing before it kills somebody! What was that anyhow? Didn't get a good look at it…"

Hound got the feeling that he should say something in response, but renewed pain flashed through his chassis at Windcharger's grip, and he blacked out.

* * *

"I swear you idiots can't go anywhere without getting holes punched in your chassis," Ratchet grumbled, not looking up from working on Hound's shoulder. "And it couldn't be something simple like a gunshot or a knife wound. No, you had to get bit by something or other! Right on a joint no less!"

"It's not like I stuck my arm in its mouth," Hound protested. "Believe me, this wasn't high on my list of priorities."

The temporary Autobot base in Richmond, Virginia had been established in a converted warehouse, and at the moment played host to five mechs and the ruins of the recovered spacecraft. Wheeljack and Cosmos examined the craft inside and out, taking readings and image scans and investigating its damages. Ratchet worked on patching Hound up in one corner, while Jazz sat at a computer console in another corner and watched the proceedings with interest. Bluestreak and Windcharger were on their way back to the forest where Hound had been ambushed, checking to see if his attacker had returned to the scene and collecting any evidence that might help identify him or her.

"All right, I've done all I can," Ratchet muttered, closing the mangled panel over the shoulder joint. "Your range of motion's going to be fairly limited until we can get you back to base and replace the ball and socket. Whatever mauled you did a damned good job of it."

Hound flexed the joint experimentally and winced as a jagged bit of metal caught a cable. "I thought it was a spooked neutral or something. I wasn't expecting a Horrorcon."

"Not this again," Ratchet groaned. "For the last time, Hound, Horrorcons are a myth. A bedtime story that creators tell their sparklings to get them to behave."

"I dunno, Ratchet," Wheeljack pointed out, poking his head out of the spacecraft's interior. "Most of those stories stick around because there's a grain of truth to them. Maybe creatures like Horrorcons really exist, we just haven't seen much of them until now."

Jazz shrugged. "If monster mechs with a cravin' for Cybertronian fluids an' alloys really existed, ya think our scientists woulda bagged a specimen by now. I'm guessin' whatever took a bite outta Hound was just some new model o' Insecticon, not a thing outta someone's nightmares."

"I know what I saw," Hound insisted, lowering his arm. "It was no Insecticon. It was a Horrorcon."

The saboteur shook his head with a bit of a chuckle. "Ya been watchin' horror movies again, haven't ya, Hound? I know it's that time o' the year, but they ain't exactly documentaries."

"It was a Horrorcon," Hound repeated firmly as he pushed himself to his feet. "I would bet my spark on it."

"I believe him," Cosmos insisted from his perch on the crushed nosecone of the escape pod. "Hound has never been known to lie before. If he says he saw a Horrorcon, I believe him."

"He's not a liar, and we never said he was," Ratchet said testily. "But even our optics glitch from time to time. And given that it was dark and Hound's systems were over-stimulated by the attack, it's entirely possible his CPU just leaped to the worst possible conclusion. At any rate, once we catch whatever did this, we can finally put this whole Horrorcon business to rest."

Hound sighed deeply but decided to drop the matter. No amount of arguing was going to change Ratchet or Jazz's minds. But hopefully Bluestreak and Windcharger were able to locate the creature… and THEN, perhaps, the others would believe him.

"'Jack, Cozzy, whatcha got for us?" Jazz asked.

"It's definitely an escape pod," Wheeljack replied. "No faction markings, so I'm gonna assume it's neutral. Looks like a single-occupant model, so unless they tried to cram it full in a panic, there should only be the one passenger running around."

"Let us hope it's only one," Cosmos said with a shudder. "Horrorcon or not, if it could hurt Hound like that, I don't want to meet another one."

Jazz nodded. "We'll put out a warnin' to the human media an' police. Whatever this thing is, we don't want it messin' with a human…"

The rumble of an engine cut off the rest of his sentence, and Windcharger pulled into the warehouse.

"They can't be back already," Ratchet scowled. "They've only been gone a few hours!"

"Maybe they found it right away and shot it?" Hound suggested. Though if that was the case, he thought they would have at least radioed for backup.

"'Charger, whatcha find?" asked Jazz.

Windcharger transformed and stretched his arms to work out the kinks in his joints. Hound decided that already he didn't like the look of smug amusement on the minibot's face. Had they just performed the most minimal of searches before coming back?

"We found Hound's Horrorcon," he replied, grinning.

Jazz cocked his head curiously. "And?"

Bluestreak pulled into the garage at that moment, followed by a sleek, black-and-gunmetal vehicle covered in scratches and dents. Hound's tanks clenched in recognition… but there was no way that this vehicle – a sporty Cybertronian alt mode, the equivalent of a human's luxury car – could be the creature he encountered last night. There was no way the bulk of the Horrorcon could fold up this small, unless he could stow his extra components into subspace like Blaster…

The mech transformed, and Hound felt his hopes fall even further. He was short, just barely taller than a minibot, and as sleek as his alt mode implied. His helm bore an ornate pair of headfins, almost like Blurr or Drift, and he carried himself with the easy grace of a noblemech. In robot mode his black and gunmetal were accented with turquoise and chrome, and his sea-blue optics shone with curiosity and good humor. Despite the similarity of his colors and the absurd-looking cannon on one shoulder… there was no way this could be the beast that Hound had encountered last night. And yet…

"This is Dashboard," Bluestreak said by way of introduction. "He's a neutral whose ship came under attack about a quartrex ago. His escape pod crashed here, but he just came out of stasis a couple nights ago, he says. He's pretty excited to hear Optimus Prime is here and is hoping he can get sanctuary aboard the Ark until he figures out where to go next."

Dashboard chuckled. "Took the words right out of my vocalizer, this one. Yes, he's about summed it all up."

Hound opened and shut his mouth a few times before he could get the words out. "But… you… I thought…"

"Oh right… about last night." Dashboard gave an embarrassed grin. "Sorry for the close-range shot from my distortion cannon. I sort of panicked. I hope you can forgive me?"

Hound shook his head. "That wasn't a distortion cannon… something bit me, I swear…"

Ratchet waved his protests away. "You can stop that right now, Hound. Just admit your Horrorcon turned out to be something less than horrible. We all make mistakes, but don't compound yours by insisting it wasn't a mistake."

"Horrorcon?" asked Dashboard, raising an optic ridge. "It sounds like there's an entertaining story behind this."

"Glad someone thinks it's entertaining," Ratchet huffed. "No, Hound just let his CPU get filled with stories and mistook you for something you weren't. Let's get you back to the Ark so we can figure out what the slag to do with you. Everyone pack up, we're done here."

Hound opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it, defeat weighing down his spark. He swore that what he'd seen last night wasn't just a terrified neutral with a distortion cannon, but an actual creature. And yet his story had been shot down on all fronts. He had no proof except for his own word… and he was starting to doubt that more by the second.

 _Maybe it was a trick of the light,_ he decided glumly. _Or that_ War of the Worlds _broadcast kicked my imagination into overdrive. It seemed so real… but I guess I'm just a daydreamer at spark._

Jazz came up and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it, Hound. Everybody makes mistakes."

"I know," Hound replied. "But never quite this embarrassing."

The Porsche chuckled and patted his shoulder again. "Don't worry, it's the start of Halloween season. It's a bit early, but we can always say ya just wanted to kick things off with a bang." He laughed briefly, but cut his laughter off quickly and yanked his hand back. "Sorry."

"For what? I'm the one that should be sorry, I got us all riled up for nothing."

"Not that. Sorry for touchin' your shoulder. The one that got wrecked."

Hound frowned and lifted his arm, noting that the cable no longer caught when he moved and flexed the joint in his shoulder. "It didn't hurt, though. In fact, it feels a lot better."

"Huh. Still, have Ratch give it another look 'fore you do anything too major with it." He patted Hound's other shoulder. "Let's transform an' roll out. We got a long drive back to the Ark."

Hound nodded and folded into his Jeep mode. Odd… his self-repair had never worked that quickly before. He wondered if the distortion cannon's effects had something to do with it. Maybe Ratchet could provide some answers once they reached a proper medical bay.


	2. Chapter 2

Optimus Prime held his hands steepled before him as he listened to the report from Jazz and Ratchet. When he had sent a squad to Virginia to investigate the UFO crash, he hadn't expected them to come back with a survivor. Still, he couldn't deny that it was good to see a living Cybertronian make their way to Earth, even if it was a neutral. And perhaps they could convince said neutral to renounce his neutrality and join their side. If they could just appeal to his better nature…

Dashboard stood against the wall of Prime's office, hands behind his back and politely waiting for his turn to speak. Ratchet and Jazz stood before Prime's desk, finishing up their report, and Hound slumped in a chair in a corner. Oddly enough, the usually pleasant-tempered scout seemed withdrawn and sullen, and had given his side of the report in short, clipped sentences. Apparently he had sustained injuries in his encounter with the neutral, though that wouldn't account for all of his suddenly snappish nature.

Prime couldn't shake the feeling that Hound was hiding something from him, and judging from Ratchet's irritated expression he sensed that the medic knew full well what it was. But he opted not to press it. If Ratchet felt it was important, he would tell him, but for now he would let it rest.

"Thank you Jazz, Ratchet." He nodded at the two, then settled his gaze on Dashboard. "I would like to hear from you now, if that's possible."

"Certainly, sir." Dashboard stepped forward. "My name is Dashboard. I was once a security guard in the Towers district, and when the war began I followed several of the nobles to a neutral colony on Hyperion. When the war reached that planet, we evacuated and set our course for deep space, hoping to find another world to colonize, but we came under attack. I made it into an escape pod, where I put myself into stasis. I woke up on this world, Earth… and well, you know the rest."

"I see. And your encounter with our scout?"

"Yes… I'm deeply sorry about that. He insisted he was an Autobot, but well… Decepticons have often used that assurance to draw victims out of hiding. I panicked and shot him with my distortion cannon, and fled. It wasn't until Bluestreak and Windcharger found me the next day that I realized I was on a safe world." He chuckled softly. "It's rather amusing… your scout apparently thought he'd been bitten by some kind of Horrorcon."

Hound shot a glare at Dashboard. "It's not funny."

"A Horrorcon?" Prime arched an optic ridge. "What's this about?"

Hound sighed so deeply it was almost a groan. "I mistook him for a Horrorcon, all right? It was dark and I was on edge and maybe I've seen too many monster movies with the twins. Just leave me alone about it already."

Ratchet gave a sigh of his own and shook his head. "Hound came back with his shoulder all mangled, giving some story about getting bit by a Horrorcon. The damages to his shoulder certainly looked like a mauling… but they're also consistent with a close-range blast from a distortion cannon. Mistakes happen, but Hound's being a brat about it apparently."

Prime frowned behind his mask. That seemed like an awfully big mistake to make… and Hound wasn't known for making up stories. But if Hound was admitting to his error and the evidence pointed to his "monster" sighting being a fluke, then he supposed he shouldn't question it too deeply. Still… he couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was going on.

He put the feeling aside for now. "Dashboard, we can grant you temporary sanctuary aboard the Ark for now. But by the end of this planet's lunar cycle I want you to make a decision regarding your allegiances. If you choose to become an Autobot, you may remain here… but if you would rather remain neutral, we will arrange to have you sent to a protected neutral colony."

Dashboard nodded. "Of course, sir."

"In the meantime, I leave you in Ratchet's hands. He'll give you a complete physical, then take you to Red Alert for a security briefing. Once Red Alert has cleared you…"

"That'll take days," Jazz noted with a chuckle.

"…then we will find you quarters aboard the Ark. Welcome aboard." He nodded. "Everyone is dismissed."

Hound pushed himself out of his chair and slouched his way toward the door. Dashboard reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, a sympathetic look on his faceplate.

"No hard feelings, my friend?"

Hound pulled away with a wordless snarl and ducked out, leaving Dashboard to stare after him in confusion.

"Did he just _growl_ at you?" Ratchet demanded, scowling.

"Let 'im cool off," Jazz advised. "He had a rough coupla days. He ain't gonna be a grouchy-pants for long – he's Hound, he's never mad long."

"All the same, I'll feel better about this when I've had a chance to apologize," Dashboard confessed.

"Give him time," Ratchet told him, leading him out. "For now let's get you looked over…"

Once his office had emptied out, Prime gave a deep sigh of his own and reached up to rub at his temples. The excitement never ended here, apparently. Though at least a neutral requesting sanctuary with the Autobots was on the lesser end of the spectrum – it certainly beat dealing with an explosion in the science labs, or a prank war between the twins and Trailbreaker, or the Aerialbots antagonizing the Dinobots again. And with the human holiday of Halloween rolling around – and most of the Autobots wanting to celebrate it – he doubted the excitement would end anytime soon.

* * *

Cosmos didn't talk to the Autobots' human friends very often. It wasn't that he was xenophobic or anything – on the contrary, meeting the sentient inhabitants of other worlds thrilled him beyond words. But he often felt like he didn't have anything worthwhile to say to them. He was a deep-space scout who spent more time in orbit around the planet than actually socializing with people, and so he felt awkward trying to strike up a conversation with anyone. And if the Autobots were often bored to tears when he rambled on about satellites and pulsars and the next comet passing, he figured the humans would only be hopelessly lost by whatever he had to say.

But today he didn't care about awkwardness. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone, about what was worrying him, and he had a feeling none of the Autobots would be willing to discuss it. Perhaps the humans could help him somehow.

The common room was abuzz with conversation as Cosmos made his way through, a cube clutched in both his hands. That wasn't anything different – small talk abounded during refueling breaks. But for the past week now the talk had turned to Halloween, and the preparations for the big Halloween bash the twins were planning on throwing. Prowl and Red Alert had yet to approve the party, but everyone seemed to assume that said party was a foregone conclusion. Doubtless if the command element nixed an official party, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would just throw one anyway in a remote location where Prowl and Red Alert would be none the wiser… or at least elect not to throw too much of a fit about it.

Cosmos passed a table of mechs who were discussing what costumes they were planning on wearing on the big night, and made a beeline for the small table in the corner where Sparkplug and Chip were taking a coffee break. Just the humans he wanted to talk to. Chip was smart, and Sparkplug had a level head on his shoulders. Perhaps they could help him, or at least hear out his worries.

"May I sit here?" he asked.

"Sure, go ahead," Sparkplug replied, pulling his mug back. "Go ahead and put your fuel on the table. Should be plenty of space."

"Thank you." He set the cube down and sat on the floor. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," Chip replied. "We're just discussing Halloween costumes. I was thinking of going as Professor Xavier from the X-Men comics."

"And I was trying to get him to think outside the box," Sparkplug added. "Just because he's in a wheelchair doesn't mean he has to play a wheelchair-bound character, after all. Nobody here's going to complain about accuracy or anything."

"Hey, Professor Xavier is a fantastic role model," Chip countered. "I looked up to him as a kid. Let me dress as my favorite X-Man and you can be yours."

Sparkplug laughed a little. "Ah, I'm too old to be one of the X-Men. I'll probably go as something boring, like a cop or a football player." He looked up at Cosmos. "Thought about your costume yet?"

"Not really," Cosmos confessed. "I haven't been giving Halloween much thought. Though it's supposed to be special this year – there's supposed to be a full moon that night."

"Oh, right!" Chip realized, grinning. "A blue moon! Well, not the color blue, that's just the term for when there's two full moons in a month. It's a pretty rare occurrence."

"That's right, there was one on the first, wasn't there?" asked Sparkplug. "Well, that'll be neat. Not to mention appropriate, it being on Samhain and all."

"Samhain?" Cosmos cocked his head.

"Old Gaelic festival heralding the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. It's on the same day as Halloween – in fact, Halloween has some roots in it. There are actually quite a few holidays around this time of the year, such as the Mexican Day of the Dead."

Cosmos blinked, trying to process all of this… then remembered that he'd come here on a mission, not necessarily to make small talk. "I hope you two can help me."

"With a Halloween costume?" asked Chip.

"No, not that. It's about Hound."

Sparkplug glanced over at the table to the left of the Dinobots, where Hound was hunched over his fuel and staring morosely off into space. "We noticed he's been kind of moody the past few days. What's eating him? He can't be THAT upset over getting shot by the new guy."

Cosmos hesitated, wondering if he should even bring this up. Hound had ended up recanting his version of events regarding the attack, saying he had probably imagined seeing the Horrorcon and didn't want to talk about it anymore, and no one outside their squad had mentioned it. If he told Sparkplug and Chip… would he be doing more harm than good? Would they think he was crazy, or worse, think less of Hound for his story? He didn't want that at all.

But he couldn't deny that Hound had been acting weird since the encounter in Virginia. And Cosmos wanted desperately to help him somehow. Even if it meant trying to get help from the humans.

"Hound thinks it wasn't Dashboard who injured him," he said at last.

Chip frowned. "But Dashboard confessed to shooting him. An accident, he said."

Cosmos shook his head. "Before we found Dashboard, Hound said he was attacked… by something else. A Horrorcon."

"A what?" Sparkplug's forehead bunched in confusion. "What's a Horrorcon? Sounds like something from a bad horror movie."

"You humans have your monsters," Cosmos replied. "Vampires, werewolves, mummies, ghosts, and all the others. We have our own monsters, our own legends, some similar to your own and others very different. They go by many names, but the collective term for all of them is Horrorcons."

Chip's eyes lit up with interest. "I didn't know you guys had your own monster myths! This is so cool!" He cocked his head. "You're saying Hound thinks he saw one? What did it look like?"

Cosmos felt his spark plummet. "He did not say."

"Aw dang," Chip groaned, though his grin didn't fade. "I wanted to hear more. See if you guys had your own version of the Wendigo or Slenderman." He laughed.

"It's not funny, Chip," Sparkplug scolded. "If Hound was attacked by one of these Horrorcons, then that means it's still out there somewhere. It could still be lurking in the mountains, waiting to attack some unsuspecting campers or something. Or it's just waiting for an unlucky mech to happen by, if it prefers metal over meat."

"Sparkplug… you believe him?" asked Cosmos. He had hoped the humans would take his side, but hadn't really expected them to...

Sparkplug looked at Cosmos intently. "Hound doesn't lie about anything. If he claims he saw something, then he saw something. The fact that he now claims it was his imagination – probably trying to save some face – doesn't change that."

Warm relief flooded the minibot at that. "Do you think that he would tell us more if we asked him?"

"I dunno," Chip confessed. "He's clammed up lately, kept to himself. Prowl says he hasn't gotten more than two words out of him lately. But just because he won't talk to Prowl doesn't mean he won't talk to us, right?"

"We can always give it a shot," Sparkplug replied. "Maybe if we get a better description of whatever attacked him, it can answer some questions." He stared into his coffee mug, frowning. "And I hate to say it, but we need to talk to Dashboard about this too. The fact that he was in the area with the Horrorcon means he might know something about it that we don't. Maybe he shared an escape pod with it."

"If that's the case, how is he still in one piece?" asked Chip.

"That's something we need to find out." Sparkplug tapped the edge of his cup. "Cosmos, you go talk to Dashboard, all right? I'll see if I can't get some information out of Hound. Chip, go ask around and see if any of the Autobots know something about Horrorcons, or have some literature they can loan you. Try to be discreet about it if you can – ask about their monster lore instead of about Horrorcons directly. I'd rather not have the entire base know what we're looking for, and I don't want to embarrass Hound more than he is already."

Cosmos stared at Sparkplug in amazement. The mechanic was normally very easygoing and quiet, giving the impression of being an average everyman, but he had a sharp mind and could snap into command mode in an instant. Small wonder he had gotten along so well with Optimus from day one – the two were far more alike than anyone realized.

"Cosmos? What's the problem?"

"Oh… nothing." He pushed himself to his feet. "I'll go find Dashboard and see what he knows."

"I'm going to talk to Skids," Chip volunteered. "He's got a huge database on Cybertronian culture and legends. Maybe he'll let me browse it some."

"And I'll go talk to Hound… wherever he ran off to." He frowned at the empty table where Hound had been sitting moments before. "Sneaky guy. Didn't even see him leave. Ah well, I'll find him. Meet me back at the main hangar tonight and we'll go over what we've found, if anything. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better."

* * *

It wasn't uncommon to find Hound out in the wilds surrounding the Autobot base, going on a leisurely drive through the desert or exploring the forests or mucking through a muddy gulley. He had always had a deep appreciation for nature, and found the wide variety of flora and fauna on Earth endlessly fascinating. Often, after a particularly brutal battle or exhausting training session, he would retreat outside the base to de-stress, finding some measure of inner peace and tranquility from his study of nature and the many ways it found harmony with itself.

Today, the woods were a more powerful draw than ever. It wasn't simply a matter of trying to relax – it was as if something out there were calling to him. Ever since the mission in the Appalachian Mountains, he had felt anxious whenever he'd been confined to the base, almost claustrophobic. The feeling was lessened when he was out driving on the open roads or in the desert, but only losing himself among the trees seemed to cure it fully.

With a sigh he made his way to a small clearing and sat down, relishing the feeling of grass and damp earth under his legs. The day was calm and clear, with just a hint of a nip in the air to indicate the shifting of the seasons. Most of the trees here were evergreens, but here and there he caught a glimpse of flaming yellow and orange where the leaves were changing colors. Noisy honking signaled a V of geese working their way southward for the winter, and every now and again a furry body rustled through the grass or fallen leaves as it hoarded away food or fattened itself up in preparation for the cold weather to come.

Hound cycled a deep intake of air and smiled for the first time in days. It was a time of change, a shifting of the world. Nature operated on a logical cycle, uninterrupted and unceasing, and creatures learned to adapt and accommodate. There was something to be learned from that, he figured.

His thoughts wandered to the encounter a week ago, and his smile faded. He had been so sure of what he'd seen, but after everyone shooting his story down – and providing proof that the mech he'd encountered had just been an ordinary mech – he didn't know what to believe anymore. And in the end he'd simply recanted his story, figuring that was easier than continuing to fight about it. Now, he was wondering if that had been the best idea after all.

He lifted his arm, testing the joint. Funny… it was as good as new now, despite Ratchet's claim that the joint needed replacing. A mech's self-repair systems could often seal ruptured tubing or damaged circuitry and wires, but he'd never heard of an entire ball and socket being mended by one's internal nanobots. And usually self-repair took time, hours or even days, but somehow his shoulder had healed itself completely within an hour of Ratchet's repairs. He wasn't a medic, but he was going to guess that wasn't normal.

Part of him insisted that he go see one of the medics about it… but at the moment, he really didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and ponder on what he had seen.

A faint sound reached his audials, and he tensed slightly. That sounded like one of the minibots' engines… and from the slight catch in the engine, he was going to guess it was Beachcomber. He was good about being able to identify individual mechs by the sound of their engines, though usually he had to be rather close to them to tell the difference. Odd, though… Beachcomber sounded far away…

He stood and crept through the woods, toward the faint drone of the engine. Normally he would simply work his way through the trees, not caring how much of a racket his chassis made as branches whacked his plating and sticks crunched under his feet. But today he gentled each footfall, padding forward almost silently, weaving his way between the trees and taking a route as clear of branches and vegetation as possible. Even his fans stilled as he made his way forward.

There… a ribbon of road cut through the forest about a half-mile ahead, and Beachcomber was just pulling over at that moment. The blue minibot transformed and pulled a bag out of subspace, then bent over and began picking up bits of trash from the side of the road. Hound couldn't suppress a smile. Trust him to put a patrol on hold in order to clean up litter.

His hands twitched slightly as he watched Beachcomber work, the dune buggy's back to the scout's hiding place as he picked up bottles and cans and old tires. Unconsciously he found his joints tensing, his entire body coiling as if about to spring. The mech had no idea he was here… he was completely oblivious, easy prey… it would be sparkling's play to close the gap between them and pin him to the ground, to grab his neck in a death grip and shake him…

A shudder passed through his body, and he shook himself out of those thoughts in horror. What in Pit was he thinking? This was Beachcomber, his ally, a mech he had spent countless hours hiking and talking with! He wasn't honestly thinking about attacking him, was he?

Beachcomber continued his self-appointed cleanup job, humming a John Denver tune as he went, completely unaware that someone was watching. Hound looked on a moment longer before shaking himself again and drawing deeper into the trees. The urge to attack had vanished… for now.

_What's happening to me?_


	3. Chapter 3

Until Dashboard made a final decision regarding his affiliation, he was staying in one of the guest suites on the Ark. Privately Cosmos thought this was a little unfair – the guest rooms were bigger and better furnished than the rooms in the barracks, not to mention closer to the common and recreation rooms. He wondered if the neutral wouldn't put off making a decision for as long as possible, simply to take advantage of the nicer quarters. Cosmos didn't think he would do the same in that situation, but he knew other mechs who wouldn't hesitate…

He shook his head and reached up to knock on the door. That was all beside the point. Right now, Hound was his priority.

The door slid open, and the gray-and-black mech peered out with a puzzled expression. It took him a second to look down and spot Cosmos.

"Oh! My apologies. I'm not used to dealing with minibots." He stepped back from the door. "Come in, please. Make yourself at home."

Cosmos walked in, looking around as Dashboard shut the door behind him. He hadn't really expected Dashboard to have already redecorated the room to suit his tastes, so he wasn't really surprised to find the room bare of decoration. He did notice that, while the room was neat and organized, it wasn't exactly tidy – dirty footprints patterned the floor, and sticks and pine needles were scattered across the room and even all over the berth. Dashboard himself, despite his sleek look, was still dinged-up and dirty, as if he hadn't seen a washrack or a paint touch-up since he'd arrived here.

"I don't believe I've been introduced to you yet," Dashboard noted, sitting down on the berth. His voice had a pleasant lilt to it, marking him as a resident of the Towers, though not quite nobility. "What's your designation?"

"Cosmos," he replied, nudging a pinecone with the tip of his foot. "I'm an interplanetary scout. I wanted to talk to you, if that's okay?" He knew he sounded wishy-washy, but he wasn't exactly good at interrogation or anything. This was a job better suited for Jazz or Ironhide, not a shy and awkward minibot.

"Of course." Dashboard motioned to the chair. "Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I promise I don't bite. Much." He chuckled a bit at his joke.

Cosmos forced out a stiff chuckle and hauled himself into the chair – it was really built for a taller mech, and his feet hung a good meter from the floor when he finally got settled in it. "You look… different."

Dashboard gave a chuckle. "Thank you for being tactful. Yes, I admit I look a little blockier than when I first came here." He raised his left leg slightly, showing off the new wheel there. "The command element suggested I take on an alternate mode that would fit on this planet, so I complied. A Fiat 500, I believe they call it. Sporty, if a bit antiquated."

"Ah, right." Cosmos nodded, then tried to get the conversation back on track. "So… you came here in an escape pod."

Dashboard nodded. "I believe you were on the team that recovered it."

Right, that had been a stupid question. But he tried again. "Was there anyone else in the pod with you?"

"Not a spark," he replied, shaking his head. "If any other pods were launched in the chaos, I didn't see."

"Ah." He tapped his fingers together, trying to figure out what to say next. "What about animals? Did… did you bring a pet?"

Dashboard laughed. "You are a funny one, Cosmos. Trust me when I say that, when your ship comes under attack by a Decepticon task force, the last thing you're thinking about is evacuating your pets."

"Oh." He fidgeted a bit more, fiddling with a panel on his arm. "When you woke up at the crash site… did you see anything strange?"

The neutral mech raised an optic ridge. "Should I have?"

"Well… ah…" How could he ask this without making it seem like they were blaming Dashboard for whatever was happening to Hound. "Do you think it's possible that something snuck into the pod with you? Did you notice anything weird?"

Dashboard's smile never faded. "Cosmos, you saw the inside of my escape pod. It's barely large enough to hold a car-bot. If I was sharing my pod with anyone or anything, regardless of their size, I think I would know." His smile took on a wry tilt. "Is this about Hound's claim about the Horrorcon?"

Cosmos didn't know how to answer that. "Um…"

"Never mind. I take it from your reluctance to answer that that's the case." He reached forward and gave Cosmos a pat on the helm, an action the minibot thought was rather condescending. "I'm glad you're standing up for your friend, but I really wouldn't encourage this flight of fantasy he's embarked on. He saw something in the moonlight that wasn't there. That's all."

He ducked his head away from Dashboard's hand and wriggled out of the chair. "Thank you for the advice, but I'll decide how I best want to help my friend."

"Of course." Dashboard grinned, and for a moment Cosmos thought he saw his optics flash with a burst of feral light. "But be careful, will you? Hound seems especially moody right now, and I would hate for someone like you to get hurt."

Cosmos stared at Dashboard, but the mech only smiled and shut the door after him.

* * *

"Me Sludge wanted to be Anguirus!"

"Me Slag called it first! Besides, me Slag look more like Anguirus than you. You Sludge can be Loch Ness Monster or something."

"Loch Ness Monster not Kaiju!"

"Me Slag thought it was Kaiju!"

"Me Swoop thought Loch Ness Monster from Scotland, not Japan."

"Me Slag still think you Swoop should have been Rodan."

"Me Swoop not like Rodan. Mothra's better."

"Mothra's stupid!"

"You Slag take that back!"

"Can you five shut up for two seconds so I can work?" Ratchet snapped. "Primus almighty, if you don't mute it I'm going to start removing vocalizers!"

"You Ratchet always saying that," Snarl pointed out, "but never follow through."

"Want me to start?"

Snarl smirked, but he didn't press his luck. Instead he turned back to the table the Dinobots had appropriated to hash out their Halloween costumes. From the sound of it they had decided on various monsters from Kaiju movies, and naturally Grimlock, who tended to use his authority for trivial things like this, had claimed Godzilla for himself. Swoop had decided on Mothra, while the others either bickered over which ones they wanted to dress as or heckled Swoop for his choice.

Ratchet, for his part, just hoped they made up their minds quickly so he could get back to work. He wasn't against this whole Halloween celebration, but his medbay was NOT meant to be a costume workshop. He had much more important things to be worrying about than costumes.

"Cut 'em a bit of slack," Wheeljack advised. "They're excited about this. Don't ruin their fun."

"I'll fraggin' well ruin their fun if they interrupt something important to…" began Ratchet as he looked up at the scientist… only for his voice to trail off. "What the frag…"

"Oh, this?" Wheeljack spread his arms. "Giving my costume a trial run. Whatcha think?"

Ratchet gave Wheeljack's khaki-covered body and the bulky contraption hanging from his back an incredulous look. "Dare I ask what you're supposed to be?"

"Don't you know?" Wheeljack asked. "Dr. Venkman from _Ghostbusters!_ I made you a proton pack too, in case you wanted to go as Dr. Stantz with me."

"Slag, no," Ratchet growled.

"What?" Slag barked, whirling to glare at the medic.

"Not you," Ratchet snapped back. "I'm talking to Wheeljack."

Slag grumbled but went back to arguing with Swoop.

"You know, you really could loosen up some," Wheeljack advised, leaning against Ratchet's workbench. "The world isn't gonna end because you pulled the steel girder out of your tailpipe."

"I've got a lot to do, and you lunatics aren't helping," Ratchet replied, returning his gaze to the microscope. "If you could drag the Dinobots to your workshop so they can work out their costumes there, I'd appreciate that."

"No can do," Wheeljack replied. "Perceptor's doin' something delicate in there, and he doesn't want the Dinobots around." He looked at the microscope with interest. "Whatcha got there?"

"Samples of Hound's nanobots and internal fluid," Ratchet replied as he swapped one slide for another. "Trying to figure out why his self-repair system has suddenly gone haywire. A wrecked shoulder joint just doesn't fix itself THAT fast."

"I dunno if 'haywire's' the right word," Wheeljack pointed out. "I mean, his self-repair fixing his shoulder would be a GOOD thing, I'd think. If anything, we should look into replicating it for the rest of the Autobots."

"You can't jack up a mech's repair systems without some serious consequences," Ratchet retorted. "Nanobots don't like to sit idle – they're constantly working to repair and improve a mech's internal systems, whether it's minor injuries or everyday wear and tear. Ones that work this fast are going to have nothing to do in a short time, and then they'll start wreaking all sorts of havoc on the internals. You have mechs bleeding out their orifices or having their internal components crumble to dust without warning."

"…oh." Wheeljack shuddered. "Never mind, then. Think Hound caught some kind of virus that's affecting his nanobots?"

"It's possible."

"Think the distortion cannon did it?"

"Distortion cannons just shoot concentrated blasts of kinetic energy, not anything that should transmit a virus. Still… I'll have to get some samples from Dashboard here. It's possible that he could be a carrier for whatever Hound's got. Means I have to check out you and everyone else who's had contact with Dashboard or that escape pod too." Ratchet sighed. "My work is never done, is it?"

"Look on the bright side, job security," Wheeljack laughed. "Find anything interesting yet?"

"Some abnormalities in his nanobots and his fluids," Ratchet noted. "Nothing calamitous, but…"

Sludge chose that moment to escalate the argument to a shoving match. Slag reeled back as Sludge headbutted him in the chest, sending him toppling into Ratchet. The medic yowled as he sprawled over his work area, knocking the microscope, samples, and several containers of chemicals all over the table.

"YOU PRIMUS-DAMNED MORONS!"

"Uh-oh," Swoop whimpered, and bolted from the room. The other Dinobots followed suit, not even pausing to grab their plans from off the table. As tough and bold as they proclaimed to be, none of the Dinobots wanted to risk the wrath of their creator – and at the moment they feared the medic more than even Megatron himself.

Ratchet, for his part, couldn't blame them – at the moment he wanted to get his hands around Sludge's neck and shake him for all he was worth. The table was covered in chemicals… and the slides and sample tubes containing Hound's nanobots and fluids were little more than smoking lumps of melted glass and char now.

"I'm gonna kill 'em!"

"It was an accident!" Wheeljack insisted. "And it's not like you can't track Hound down and get more samples."

"I'm still gonna kill them!" Ratchet snapped, stalking off to grab a cleaning cloth. "This is precisely why I didn't want them in the medbay while I did this!"

"Look, I'll talk to them and see if they can't take it to their quarters or the rec room," Wheeljack promised. "Just… stop acting like they did this on purpose. It wasn't all their fault. I mean, why were there volatile chemicals on the table anyhow?"

"They weren't volatile," Ratchet snapped. "Mostly cleansers. The most unstable thing on the table was some silver nitrate, and that was just to disinfect things."

"Huh." Wheeljack cocked his head. "That's weird. Silver nitrate shouldn't have THAT kind of reaction to our fluids."

"Yeah, well, nothing around here seems to do what it should anymore," Ratchet grumbled. "Go find Hound and tell him to get his aft back in the repair bay. I'm going to need more samples, and to give him a complete physical to make sure those nanobots aren't wrecking him inside. Something screwy is going on with him, and I want to know what."

* * *

A metallic hand came down on Chip's shoulder, and he gave a completely undignified and unmasculine shriek of fright. He couldn't exactly jump out of his wheelchair, but he did flail his arms briefly, almost smacking the mech behind him in the faceplate.

"Chip! Are you all right?"

"I'm… I'm fine." Chip focused on taking deep breaths and relaxing before he turned to face the speaker. "Don't just come up behind me like that, Cosmos! Geez…"

"Sorry." Cosmos ducked his head low. "I didn't mean to spook you."

Once Chip was sure he was breathing normally, he reached out to pat Cosmos' arm. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped. I just got really into what I was reading here."

"What did you find?" Cosmos crouched low to peer over the human's shoulder.

"Lots. Skids let me borrow his files on Cybertronian mythology and cryptology, and I've been looking through them. Geez… you guys have some freaky myths! Some of these make Dracula look like the Count from _Sesame Street_!"

Cosmos shrugged a little. "I never thought of them as particularly scary. Then again… I never really thought they existed until recently."

Chip gave him a strange look, then returned his attention to the screen. "Some of this stuff is far out there… like, nightmare-inducing. Sparkeaters, changelings, Morphobots… who comes up with this stuff?"

Cosmos shrugged. He wasn't the most imaginative sort, and the most creative monster he could probably come up with would look boring compared to some of these creatures from their mythology.

"Mkay, what did you get out of Dashboard?" asked Chip as he continued to browse the database. "Anything useful?"

"No. He says nothing accompanied him aboard the escape pod. He also said something strange… that we needed to be careful around Hound, or we would get hurt."

Chip frowned. "He knows more than he's letting on. We need to tell Prime about this."

"Good luck with that," Sparkplug muttered, walking up at that moment. "We don't have any proof. It's our word against Dashboard's, and at the moment, given that Hound's Horrorcon story has spread throughout the Ark, people aren't exactly going to believe us over the new guy."

"I thought we were keeping this quiet," Chip pointed out.

"I thought so too, but evidently someone's been talking." Sparkplug shook his head. "I don't know who, but I suspect our neutral friend is a bit of a gossip."

"Or he's doing it on purpose," Cosmos realized. "To make sure everyone believes him over us!"

"To what purpose, though?" asked Chip. "What does he gain from making people not trust Hound?"

Before Sparkplug could answer, the mech in question trudged up to the three of them. Cosmos' optics flickered in shock. Hound looked awful – like he hadn't recharged well in days. He was covered in dirt and scratches, and vegetation was caught in his joints. His optics looked dimmer than usual, an odd violet-blue instead of their usual aquamarine, and despite his exhausted expression he couldn't seem to keep still – his optics flickered back and forth restlessly, and his hands clenched slightly.

"Hound!" Cosmos exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Hound managed a tired smile. "I'm… functional. Let's leave it at that." He pulled a broken branch out of his elbow joint. "I haven't recharged very well since we brought Dashboard in. But don't mind me, you guys needed me for something? Sparkplug said it was important."

Cosmos took in a deep intake before speaking, hoping against hope that Hound wouldn't be upset by what they asked. "We wanted to talk to you about the Horrorcon."

Hound's optics flickered, and he frowned. "I didn't see any Horrorcon."

"None of that," Sparkplug chided. "I didn't go hiking up and down Mount St. Hillary for you just to hear you deny your story over and over. You're not a liar, you've never made up stories before, and you're not one to let your imagination run away with you like some mechs. You have a good CPU in your head, and if you say you saw a Horrorcon, I'm inclined to believe you. And we're going to figure out just WHAT you saw… and if it poses any threat to the Autobots. Will you help us?"

A tense silence fell over the group as Hound stared at Sparkplug. Cosmos stilled his fans, waiting for a reaction. Hound normally didn't lose his temper, but he'd been so moody and withdrawn the past few days that he had no idea what to expect…

Then Hound gave a soft chuckle. "I'd just about convinced myself I was going crazy. I had no idea anyone would actually believe my story."

Chip smiled in relief. "We believe you. And we're willing to help you prove that what you saw is real."

Cosmos nodded. "There's bad news, though… we think Dashboard knows what attacked you. And he's trying to keep it quiet somehow."

"For what purpose?" asked Hound. "How could a neutral benefit from a Horrorcon roaming wild on the Eastern Seaboard?"

"That's what we're going to find out," Chip assured him, and tapped a few keys on the terminal. "I've been going through this database here, and tried to narrow the types of Horrorcons down to things that could have fit in that escape pod. That eliminates some of the bigger creatures – Unicron's definitely out – but there's still quite a few to go through."

Hound cupped his chin as he pondered. "It was mech-sized. Bipedal, with a long fanged muzzle and claws."

"That narrows it down even further," Chip noted, typing again. "So it can't be a Morphobot, a Slipshine, or a Chewer."

"I've seen that first one, but what the heck are the other two?" asked Sparkplug.

Cosmos gave a shudder. "Slipshines are flat, shapeless creatures made of a type of liquid crystal. They sneak up on mechs in their recharge and squeeze into their chassis through gaps in their armor, then spread throughout the mech's body. The victim doesn't even suspect anything is wrong… until they transform. Then the Slipshine lets out a burst of energy, fracturing the spark into dozens of pieces, each of which becomes a new Slipshine."

Sparkplug whistled. "So basically the equivalent of laying its eggs in your body… freaky."

"The halfway cheery name just makes it all the freakier too," Chip noted. "And Chewers are pretty straightforward – flying creatures that bite a mech's cables and drain their energy. Like vampire bats or the mynocks from _Star Wars._ "

"Let's focus on what this thing IS instead of what it's not," Hound suggested. "Any of those articles come with pictures?"

Chip called up an article. "Sparkeater?"

Hound shook his head. "No tentacles. And it didn't look half-rotten from what I remember."

"Scrapmetal?"

"No, too many spikes. It looked sleeker."

"Energon zombie? Wait, you said it didn't look rotted… and it'd be impossible to tell if it was a changeling, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe, but I don't know why a changeling would take on the form of another Horrorcon," Hound pointed out. "And it wouldn't be a Blank either…"

"A Blank?" asked Sparkplug.

"Protoforms that have somehow gained life without gaining a spark," Cosmos explained. "They look like ordinary mechs except their faceplates – they're perfectly blank. And they're said to make no sound while they move, and to hunt down mechs to take their sparks for their own use."

"So basically Cybertronian Slenderman, except for the 'stealing sparks' bit," Chip chuckled.

"I still don't understand what Slenderman even is," Sparkplug said with a frown.

"I'll show you some of the videos later," Chip promised. "Just be prepared not to sleep much." Chip clicked through a few more articles. "Not that one, not that one… oh, gross, who came up with THAT thing? I hope whoever originated THAT myth got some psychiatric help…"

Hound peered over Chip's shoulder. "None of these fit. Maybe we should just call this off. Whatever I saw must have just been… stop there!"

Chip stopped clicking. "See something close?"

He pointed at the screen. "There. It doesn't look exactly like what I saw, but it's pretty close."

Cosmos hunkered down for a better look. The image on the screen was blurry, as if the mech snapping the picture had been trying to get away even as he took the image, but that didn't make what they saw any less horrifying – the fact that the creature was lunging at the camera didn't help. The limbs were little more than smears of motion, but the long, fanged muzzle that dripped with oral lubricant and the shining violet optics stood out with frightening clarity.

"What is that?" he asked. "I've never seen anything like it!"

Hound looked on in interest… then groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."

Cosmos peered at the entry, and he felt his spark sink.

_UNKNOWN CRYPTID_

_KNOWN SIGHTINGS: Terran system_

_FIRST SIGHTING: Terran system, date 142398-03.3_

_ORIGIN: Unknown, probably Terran system_

_SIZE: Unknown_

_DEFINING FEATURES: Unknown_

_ABILITIES: Unknown_

_PHYSICAL EVIDENCE COLLECTED: N/A_

_EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS: N/A_

_This unknown Horrorcon variant has been reported in the Terran (aka Earth) solar system in recent cycles, though no scientific evidence exists. No living eyewitnesses exist, though disappearances of Cybertronians in the Terran system have been attributed to this unidentified cryptid. Information on this Horrorcon is considered invaluable and is highly sought after by amateur and experienced cryptozoologists. All efforts to capture or make contact with this Horrorcon variant have failed._

_Above is the only known image taken of said Horrorcon, recovered from the holo-recorder of Autobot cryptozoologist Mainframe. Mainframe's chassis was found two days after his holo-recorder was recovered. Medics were unable to confirm Mainframe's cause of death from what remained of his chassis._

Chip whistled. "That is scary. And this thing's wandering around Appalachia? We have to warn someone!"

"Of course," Hound murmured. "I get attacked by a Horrorcon, and it happens to be the one no one knows anything about. I seem to be striking out everywhere lately." He gave a rueful smile. "Thank you for trying, at least."

"The Autobots might not know what this thing is," Sparkplug put in, "but I think I do."

Cosmos turned to stare at him. "You've seen one before?"

"Not in person… but it features in plenty of our fiction. In fact, I'm surprised the two of you don't recognize it."

"I don't watch many movies," Cosmos confessed. "Or read many books. And when I do read it's non-fiction. Sorry."

"I haven't exactly been thinking of Earth monsters lately," Hound said. "Though now that you mention it… if you look at that image just right…"

Chip's eyes widened as he realized what everyone was getting at. "It's lupine. That face… it looks like it comes straight off a wolf!"

"Exactly," Sparkplug replied. "We're dealing with a creature our planet calls a lycanthrope – a werewolf."


	4. Chapter 4

Starscream scowled as Laserbeak finished playing his recording, as if he'd just bitten into something foul-tasting. "A werewolf? Are these stupid Autobots really that gullible? It would be bad enough if they started seeing imaginary Horrorcons around, but beasts from human mythology?"

"If I wanted your opinion, Starscream, I would have asked for it," Megatron snapped.

"Don't tell me you're believing this folderol too," Starscream grumbled, ignoring the silver warlord. "So one of their fool scouts saw a wild dog in the forest and is screaming 'werewolf' about it. What business is it of ours?"

It had become common practice for the Decepticons to send cassettes into the Ark on a regular basis, gathering what intelligence they could regarding their enemy. Red Alert did his best to keep the pests out, constantly updating security measures and monitoring every possible weak point, but Soundwave's minions were persistent, and had grown adept at finding gaps in security. At least once every few weeks one or more were able to sneak inside, and while often they came back with nothing more useful than song lyrics or a recording of a particularly entertaining brawl in the common room, every once in awhile they struck gold… often enough for Megatron to keep sending them back.

Whether the bizarre report that an Autobot had spotted a Horrorcon on this planet would prove to be valuable information or just another burst of weirdness from Prime's crew had yet to be determined. Starscream had already made up his CPU on the matter, but Megatron looked oddly thoughtful… a dangerous expression for him.

Soundwave opened his chest to eject Laserbeak. "Follow-up of Horrorcon report: recommended."

"What?" Starscream shrilled. "Has every mech in the command element lost their minds?!"

"Shut up, you imbecile!" Megatron growled. "Under normal circumstances we would dismiss this story as nothing more than Prime's troops giving in to human flights of fancy. But Soundwave says Rumble has uncovered something else interesting regarding this affair."

Soundwave nodded and opened his chest, letting Rumble climb inside. The violet cassette began his own recording, detailing a conversation between Ratchet and Wheeljack regarding a certain patient's self-repair systems. As the recording continued a sly smile crossed Megatron's faceplate, and his optics practically glowed with glee.

"So… this Horrorcon encounter has given that Autobot scout a unique ability. One that can possibly be made to benefit our own cause."

"How does an invincible Autobot benefit our cause?" Starscream countered. "Just makes him all the more difficult to take out. Hound already refuses to stay dead no matter how many times he gets shot down in battle; now he'll be practically impossible to offline."

"You have a CPU in that cranial shell of yours," Megatron retorted. "Use it! If Hound's ability to self-repair rapidly after damages can be transferred to our own troops, it could save us valuable time and resources… and make us virtually indestructible on the battlefield. Optimus Prime would be powerless to stop us from wiping his kind out and taking over this world and Cybertron once and for all!"

"Drawbacks to Hound's ability: evident," Soundwave pointed out. "Accelerated self-repair systems pose risk to carriers."

"Hook can find some sort of protective measures," Megatron said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "For now… we make Hound our target. Send the Stunticons out to apprehend him. And remember – I want him alive and in one piece." A wicked smirk crossed his faceplate. "Once we've transferred his new ability to our troops, however… they may do with him what they will. They might get some amusement out of having a toy that never breaks permanently…"

* * *

Students at Portland State University were taking advantage of the unusually sunny weather to lounge around outside on their lunch breaks, sprawled out in the leaf-strewn grass as they ate, studied, or listened to music. Summer attire had finally given way to long sleeves and fashionable scarves, though heavier coats and clothing wouldn't be broken out until deeper into the autumn season. A group of light-hearted students had somehow gotten hold of a rake and were sweeping fallen leaves into a massive pile, then taking flying leaps into the heap and scattering them in every direction. The sun wouldn't last forever, and they were determined to make the most of it.

The arrival of an Autobot on the scene should have turned heads, and a few underclassmen did set down their sandwiches or iPods to gape as the green minibot shuffled through the leaves on his way to the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. But most simply tuned him out and went back to reading or goofing off in the leaf pile. Autobots had become such a common sight in Portland that few people gave them a second glance, and this particular Autobot frequented the university enough that he had become an accepted part of life for most students.

Cosmos sidestepped a young woman on her cell phone, who seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that she was lying directly in his path, before making his way for the building proper. He had a couple of friends in the science department here, and they often let him come in for friendly chats and so they could "pump his brain" for astronomy-related information. His problem now had nothing to do with astronomy, but hopefully one of them could still help him.

He shook a few leaves off his feet as he stepped into the building itself. Despite it being two weeks until Halloween, the building had been lavishly decorated for the holiday – black and orange garlands decorated the walls, fake spider webs dotted with plastic spiders festooned the ceiling and various bulletin boards, and the occasional plastic skeleton or bat leered from the doors. Some enterprising student had taken the creepy edge off the skeletons by sticking goofy hats on their skulls, a touch that Cosmos found rather amusing.

A door bearing a skeleton sporting a bright red fez and bow tie opened, and a gray-haired, tan-skinned man of middling height and wearing bifocals stepped out, a coffee cup in one hand and a haggard look on his face. When he spotted Cosmos, however, he grinned brightly.

"Cozzie!" he exclaimed, holding out his free hand. "Long time no see!"

"Hello, Professor Gupta," Cosmos greeted, taking the man's hand delicately in his and shaking it. "How are you faring?"

"Very well, very well! Our department has had a splendid time with that meteor chunk you brought back for us. I can't thank you enough for that!"

"It's really no problem, Professor – it was just a bit of space rock that got caught in my joints on a mission."

"That bit of space rock can teach us a great deal about the universe, Cozzie." Gupta grinned even wider. "Delightful, delightful… I wish you would come around more. You're always a treat to talk to."

"I'm sorry I haven't been around. Optimus Prime has kept me busy."

"No worries, no worries, I understand that duty calls." He sighed and took a swig of his drink. "I've been busier than ever as well with the fall semester starting. But you're in luck – my classes for the rest of the day have been cancelled. Something about a gas leak in the lecture hall."

"Oh… that's lucky." Cosmos just hoped he was wearing enough of a poker face that Professor Gupta didn't catch on that the "gas leak" was technically his fault. Or rather, the twins' fault – he'd bribed them to release a harmless but nasty-smelling gas in the lecture hall by promising to take over their patrols for the next week. Normally he didn't like to encourage Sideswipe's pranking, but this time he figured it was worth it.

"I had hoped you could help me," Cosmos explained.

"Is something wrong?" the professor asked. "Or did you have questions? I wager you know more about astronomy than I do, but I'll do my best…"

"Actually… how much do you know about mythology? Your kind's mythology?"

Professor Gupta pursed his lips in thought. "I'm an astronomy professor, not humanities… but I know some. What precisely were you hoping to learn? I'm most familiar with the Hindu mythology – and the Greek, since it's their constellations we tend to use."

"Well... lycanthropes, to be specific. Werewolves."

His eyes lit up, and he grinned. "Ah! Getting ready for Halloween, are we? Well, I might not know much about werewolf lore, but I know someone who might be able to help us. Follow me."

Cosmos obeyed, trailing after the astronomy professor. He led him down another hallway and to a large-ish room that appeared to be a small library, also decorated with spider webs and some strategically placed fake skeletons for the holiday. At a desk in the back sat a tall, thin woman with hair that stood out in a profusion of blond curls, muttering to herself as she studiously stamped books.

"This isn't the university library, is it?" asked Cosmos, looking around. Perceptor liked to come to the University of Portland to study from time to time, and from his description he had pictured the library looking a lot bigger.

"Oh no, oh no, this is just for the science department. Call it a branch of the main library if you will." He walked up to the desk and snapped his fingers. "Mrs. Budiansky! You have a patron!"

"Library's closed during class hours," she replied without looking up, stamping another book.

"Mrs. Budiansky, this is Cosmos, a friend of mine. He needs your help."

"Tell him to come back after four o'clock like anyone else."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, can you at least LOOK at him?"

She glanced up, squinting at Cosmos as if she were incredibly short-sighted. "Huh… you didn't say he was an Autobot. Unless you've made it a habit to start dragging Decepticons onto campus." And she returned to her stamping without another word. "Checkouts are for university students only."

"Mrs. Budiansky, I really do need your help," Cosmos told her. "Professor Gupta tells me you're the person to talk to about werewolves."

Her stamp hovered in the air, and she looked at him with a bit more interest. "Doing a Halloween project?"

Cosmos took in a deep intake, bracing himself for laughter or teasing. "I think… I think a friend of mine has been bitten by one."

Mrs. Budiansky gave him a long look. Then she got up and, without a word, went to a door tucked neatly between two overstuffed bookshelves. She ducked inside, then a few minutes later came out with a stack of books.

"Whereabouts was he bitten?" she asked in a businesslike manner, as if she were a medic inquiring about a patient's symptoms.

"In the shoulder."

She gave him a look of exasperation. "I mean where was he when he got bit. His geographical location."

"Oh! Um, Virginia, in the Appalachian Mountains."

"Thank you." She tossed the first book aside and began flipping through the second. "That narrows it down a bit. Probably not a skinwalker, then… could be an Old European one, though, some probably crossed over with the immigrants…"

"Mrs. Budiansky is obsessed with creatures from folklore," Professor Gupta explained. "She loves them. Knows all there is to know about Bigfoot and werewolves and wendigos…"

"That's Sasquatch, not Bigfoot," she corrected, flipping open another page. "Okay, green guy…"

"Cosmos."

"Cosmos." She looked up at him. "What do you want to know?"

"Well… he's been acting strangely since he was bitten. Do werewolves carry disease?"

"Hell yes, they do. Lycanthropy. Your friend's gonna turn into a werewolf."

Cosmos felt his pump skip a few pulses at that. "You mean… he'll become a monster?"

"Not all the time," she replied. "Most of the time he'll look perfectly normal. Some myths have it that people with lycanthropy take on some wolf-ish characteristics, though – their features might shift to look wolvish, they might be more aggressive than before, their senses are heightened, sometimes they become physically stronger or faster… depends on the myth. But on nights with a full moon, they shift totally into werewolf form."

That explained a great deal – Hound's sudden moodiness, his increased time outdoors, and his optics changing color. And wasn't there a full moon the night he was attacked? It made perfect sense.

"Will he be dangerous?"

Mrs. Budiansky raised an eyebrow. "Werewolves might look humanoid, but they operate on animal instincts. And those instincts are to hunt and eat. You tell me."

Cosmos shuddered. "But Hound is gentle… most of the time. He's friendly. Surely he'll remember us as his friends…"

"Your friend's name is Hound?" She snorted a bit. "And he got bit by a werewolf? That'd be funny under different circumstances. But Cosmos, kid, lycanthropes don't care who you are or what you mean to them under different phases of the moon – once the moon's full and they've shifted, they're out for blood. Or oil, or whatever you guys got."

Then it was worse than they thought. Hound wasn't just suffering from an illness – he was well on his way to becoming a monster. And if they couldn't stop it in time, he would be more dangerous to them than even the worst Decepticon.

"Is there a cure? Can we stop him?"

She flipped through a few more pages. "The classic way to stop a werewolf for good is silver bullets. Lead won't cut it. Silver knife might work too, if you can get one. But silver's the key – it's fatal to them."

Cosmos winced. "Anything besides that?"

"Wolfsbane's fatal to them too. Holy water might work too…"

"Anything that won't kill him?"

"Sweetheart, most people are more worried about whether the wolf'll kill them than if they'll kill the wolf." She returned her attention to the text. "Says here that some myths have it that converting the wolf to Christianity'll cure it. I wouldn't put too much stake in that, though."

"This is getting rather silly," Professor Gupta pointed out. "You two talk as if your friend really has become a werewolf."

Mrs. Budiansky smirked at the professor. "The old myths exist for a reason. And our friend here, who's from a race a lot more scientifically minded than us silly humans, believes his friend's been bit by one. I wouldn't call that silly." She looked back at Cosmos. "Given that you guys are robots, I'd say either wolfsbane or belladonna are your best bet – both have been used in medieval times to try to cure lycanthropy. Granted, they're also poisonous to humans… but maybe your kind will be safe."

Cosmos nodded. Cybertronians were still susceptible to certain toxins, but a plant-based toxin should be at least somewhat safe. If nothing else, they could try to convince Wheeljack or Perceptor to see if they could modify the plant's chemical properties and figure out just what chemical could cure Hound without contaminating his systems.

"If I were you, Cosmos, I'd hurry," Mrs. Budiansky advised. "You've got two weeks until the next full moon. I'd try to cure your friend by then if you don't want a wild beast on your hands."

* * *

The white-tailed buck had just lowered his head to rub his antlers against a tree, trying to remove the last of the velvet from his antlers, but a rustle in the brush made him pause. He raised his head, ears swiveling back and forth as he tried to pinpoint where the sound had come from. He was a good-sized specimen with an impressive spread of antlers, and he hadn't lived this long without learning to be cautious. New sounds almost always meant trouble, especially in these woods…

A huge form moved through the trees with impossible silence, and the buck barely bounded out of the way before several tons of green-and-black metal landed on the spot where he'd been standing just moments before. The mech tensed himself for another pounce, but the deer was already bolting away at full speed, threading its way through the trees.

Hound snarled quietly and clenched his fists in frustration. Too slow, too noisy. Next time he wouldn't be so careless.

 _And just what were you planning on doing with it when you caught it?_ he thought to himself. _Autobots don't eat meat, and Prime's hardly going to let you display its head in your room…_

He stood and brushed his hands off on his legs, troubled at what he'd just attempted to do. A matter of weeks ago, the thought of hurting any organic creature would have been repulsive. And here he was stalking them like some kind of predator, almost without thinking. Was this another side effect to his new illness? What had Cosmos called it – lycanthropy? Werewolf-ism?

He looked himself over, frowning. Was it his imagination, or was his plating going darker? He'd always been an odd dark shade of green, but now it was darkening and taking on a brown tinge, more closely matching the needles of the pine trees surrounding him. His white and yellow highlights were darkening as well, to a smoky gray and a tawny brown respectively. Another mech might say it was just a side effect of him avoiding the wash racks for the past couple of weeks, but now he had to wonder if it wasn't his body adjusting to his new status as a Horrorcon…

Ratchet's voice cut in on the radio, interrupting that train of thought.

_Hound! I know you're out there! Stop acting like a sparkling and get your aft in my medbay ASAP! Don't make me send Grimlock out to hunt you down!_

_I'm coming,_ Hound lied. _Just give me a bit._

 _You said you were coming two hours ago,_ Ratchet grumped. _Get down here so we can figure out what's wrong with you. And don't say that you know perfectly well what's wrong, that a werewolf bit you. I thought we agreed there wasn't a Horrorcon out there._

 _If you're willing to believe my story, I'll come down there,_ Hound told him. _Until then… you'll have to catch me first._

_Primus-dammit, Hound! If I have to send someone out there to hunt you down…_

Hound froze, every joint and servo in his body tensing. Ratchet's ranting was making it difficult to hear, but a peculiar smell had just caught his attention. His olfactory senses had always been exceptionally keen, able to track a mech simply by his exhaust trail, but his newfound condition seemed to have made it all the more sensitive. Someone was coming… and judging by the faint but unique chemical combination, there was only one group of mechs it could be…

_I'll call you back, Ratchet._

_Don't you hang up on me-_

Hound silenced his radio and raised his head, getting another faint whiff of the intruder. Motormaster… the semi truck had brought his entire team. For what purpose, he had no idea… but why they were here didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was stopping them before they could reach the Ark.

He slunk toward the road, every step nearly silent, his green chassis nearly invisible as he kept to the shadows. If he was going to have an urge to hunt, he might as well hunt worthwhile prey.


	5. Chapter 5

Motormaster scowled as he hunkered low behind a fallen tree, watching the Autobot pick his way through the forest. He really didn't want to be here. He and his comrades had been out tearing up a stretch of highway, running those laughable human cars off the road and knocking down signs with wild abandon, when Megatron had radioed him with the mission, and while at first he'd been glad for the distraction, now he just wanted it over with. It was fragging boring, and sending all five Stunts to capture a single Autobot felt like overkill in his book.

He smirked ruefully. If he, of all mechs, thought a particular assignment was overkill, that was really saying something.

"Okay, there he is," Dragstrip muttered, shifting from foot to foot restlessly. "Let's get 'im!"

"Wait," Motormaster ordered. "Let's make sure he's alone first."

"Oh, come on!" Wildrider whined. "We'd know if there were other Autobots around. Fraggers like their bright colors…"

"For once I advocate listening to our leader," Dead End muttered. "For all we know, Hound could merely be bait in a trap. He's one of the weaker Autobots, his tracking skills notwithstanding, so for him to be traipsing around on his own just hints at our oncoming doom."

"Oh, shut up, Mr. Depresso," Motormaster grumped, reaching out to cuff Dead End up the back of his helm.

Fifty yards away, Hound paused in his tracks and raised his head, as if he'd spotted something in the distance… or was picking up a scent. His back was turned to the Stunticons, and it was so tempting to just leap out of hiding and tackle him here and now, pummeling him into scrap and then reducing that scrap to rubble. But Megatron wanted the worthless mech alive, so he would have to restrain himself and his troops somehow. Maybe they could at least rough him up a bit first…

"What's the point of this anyhow?" demanded Dead End. "Why is one scout worth all this trouble? Or does Megatron hate us enough that he'd rather send us off on pointless missions?"

"Hey, at least we got an easy mission for once," Breakdown pointed out. "Not like a whole lot can go wrong on a snatch-and-grab, right?"

"There's always a dozen ways any mission can go catastrophically wrong," Dead End informed him in a dull tone. "Perhaps this is just Megatron trying to be rid of us…"

"Will you two shut up!" Motormaster snapped. "Or so help me I'll string you up in trees here for the Autobots to play with!"

Dead End snorted but subsided, while Breakdown shut up with a quiet whimper. Motormaster glared at the two of them for a moment longer until he was sure they would stay quiet, then turned back to Hound…

Or rather, to where Hound had been just seconds ago. He scowled, optics flicking from side to side as he tried to catch a glimpse of the scout again. Primus damn it, he'd barely taken his gaze off the mech and he'd vanished. How could such a clunky slowpoke be so fast and quiet?

"Spread out," Motormaster ordered. "Radio when you see him. He couldn't have gone far."

"How the frag do you lose a—" began Dragstrip before a grunt cut him off.

"You wanna finish that little thought, Dragstrip?" Motormaster rumbled, turning to glare at the yellow racer… but Dragstrip had vanished. Branches swayed directly behind the spot he'd been standing moments ago, as if something had just reached out and plucked his fellow Stunt out of sight.

"Dragstrip?" he repeated.

Breakdown whined and pressed in closer to Dead End. "Th-there's something terrible out there, isn't there? Like a Dinobot or… or a Horrorcon…"

Dead End tilted his head in an obvious optic roll. "Breakdown, my dear, you are far too old for monster stories, don't you think?"

"B-b-but Rumble said…"

"Who cares what Rumble says?" Dead End countered. "We all know we can trust him about as far as he can throw one of us…"

Wildrider had been plowing through a tangle of brush at that moment, but suddenly he pitched forward with a yelp, landing flat on his face. Before he could push himself upright he was yanked backward, vanishing into the forest with a screech of dismay. His shriek was immediately followed up by another from Breakdown as the white Lamborghini tried his hardest to climb into Dead End's arms.

Motormaster drew his sword, snarling. What the frag was going on? Was Dead End right, and Hound was just there to draw them in for quick capture or offlining? Were the Dinobots lurking in the forest right now? No, they would have been charging and roaring, not picking them off one by one from the shadows. This was more the work of the blasted twins, or Mirage…

"Come out and fight like a mech!" he ordered. "Are you some kinda coward? Show yourself!"

A low, sly chuckle drifted from the trees, and though Motormaster would never have admitted it aloud, he felt a chill ripple up his spinal array. "Oh, I'm no coward, Motormaster. What's more cowardly anyhow – eliminating a foe from the shadows, or demanding they come fight you on equal ground instead of adapting yourself to fit their fighting style?"

Breakdown whimpered and clung to Dead End all the tighter. Dead End, for his part, didn't look all that reluctant to let go of the white mech anymore.

Motormaster spat and brandished his sword, focusing on speaking to their unseen foe without his voice shaking. "Get out here and fight me! Or so help me, we'll burn these woods to the ground and flush you out!"

"Oh, you think to treat me like prey?" the voice asked. "You're not the hunter here, Motormaster. But if it amuses you to think otherwise… very well. I'll come out."

Breakdown squealed in fright as a dark form stepped out of the trees. Motormaster's optics rebooted in surprise. It was Hound, all right… but not a Hound that matched the image his databanks held. His armor was a shade of green that bordered on black, and the white and yellow highlights on his armor had darkened to gray and brown respectively. It wasn't just his colors that were different either – there was a wild, almost feral gleam to his violet-blue optics, and the corners of his lip plates seemed to be locked in a slight but predatory grin. He moved with an odd sort of grace quite in contrast to his blocky form, placing each step with the utmost care so that he moved as silently as a shadow.

"There… is that better?"

Motormaster growled and crouched, sword ready to thrust and free hand ready to jab and claw at his foe. "You're not gonna be so cocky when we've got you beat senseless and trussed up to drag back to Megatron, Autobot."

Hound outright laughed at that. "I'd like to see you try."

Motormaster roared and thundered forward. Hound smirked and, with a speed that shouldn't have been possible, sidestepped the charge. The truckformer skidded wildly as he tried to stop himself, but only ended up slamming into a tree with enough force to crack the trunk.

Breakdown, meanwhile, squirmed free of Dead End's arms and bolted. Hound gave a grin that would have made Motormaster proud had it not also been profoundly disturbing, and he sprinted after the fleeing Stunticon. The two vanished into the trees… and a scream of utmost terror filled the forest until it was abruptly cut off.

Motormaster wrestled himself to his feet and charged after Hound… only for the scout to come running back almost immediately. He didn't even hesitate, just drove his sword forward and punched it through Hound's abdomen. Never mind that Megatron wanted him alive – this was the only fitting punishment for offlining the other members of his team!

Hound's face contorted in a grimace, and he clawed at the hilt jutting from his abdominal plate. Motormaster laughed and yanked the blade free, then kicked the Jeep's legs out from under him. The Autobot grunted in pain as he hit the dirt and made no move to get back up.

"Not so tough in a straight-out fight, are you?" Motormaster gloated, planting a foot on Hound's chest. "Didn't think so…"

Pain flashed up his leg as a blade slipped into his ankle joint, severing cables and its tip jamming into the joint. He howled in agony and staggered back… only for another jolt of pain to erupt from his knee. He collapsed, cursing… and went quiet as an oil-slicked blade found his throat. Hound now straddled his chest, holding the weapon to his fuel lines, energon glowing on his abdominal plates but the gash in his chassis slowly knitting itself closed even as Motormaster watched.

 _What the frag…_ He hadn't known Hound could do that. Was he some kind of weird experimental super-soldier now? Or worse… something not Cybertronian in origin, but some kind of monster? What had Breakdown called it – a Horrorcon?

Hound smirked, and he made a single cut with his blade. Motormaster's damage readout shrieked in protest as it registered the loss of all but the most vital systems from his cranial unit down – he was effectively paralyzed and mute now.

"I think," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "that you made the mistake of underestimating me. I doubt you'll be doing that again."

Footsteps sounded just out of Motormaster's range of vision as Dead End finally made a break for it. Hound gestured for Motormaster to stay put – as if he had any choice in the matter – and loped off with the silent grace of a panther. A sharp cry rang through the forest as the red Porsche was quickly dispatched – whether killed or simply put out of commission like Motormaster, who could say?

The black truckformer offlined his optics and began to put together a list of creative ways he could dismantle Hound once he got his faculties back. And maybe a few ways to get back at Megatron for giving them this stupid assignment in the first place.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, an Autobot coming back to base with a captured Decepticon would have been welcomed with heroic fanfare. But these were far from normal circumstances… and for a single scout to come back with five immobilized Decepticons in tow was cause for concern. Especially given how oddly he'd been acting lately, and the fact that he'd never shown this level of combat expertise before.

Cosmos technically wasn't supposed to be present for this meeting. But he had managed to wrangle his way into a position to eavesdrop by claiming to have vital information on Skyspy's repair status, and he hovered just behind Prime as he, Ratchet, Prowl, and Ironhide questioned a rather irritable Hound.

"I don't see why you have to be suspicious of me," Hound pointed out with a scowl. "I stopped a Decepticon threat on our own territory. You should be thanking me, not treating me like a criminal."

"How th' frag did you stop FIVE Stunticons single-handedly?" demanded Ironhide, not even bothering to hide his shock. "Not even Grimlock can do that! That ain't natural"

"While knowing that the Stunticon threat has been neutralized for now," Prowl put in, "Ironhide has a valid point. For any mech to take on five Decepticons single-handedly and come out of it without even a scratch is rather suspicious."

"I didn't come out of it without a scratch," Hound corrected. "I told you, Motormaster stabbed me! It just fixed itself!"

"And that's another thing," Ratchet grumbled. "We've got to get that rogue nanobot problem of yours fixed, and soon. I know it seems like a good thing now, but in the long run it'll just cause problems."

"Well, what if I don't want it fixed?" Hound retorted. "It's an advantage, not a curse!"

"Hound," Prime interrupted, "listen to our CMO. He knows what he's talking about, and if he says your overactive self-repair system is a danger, then I'd take warning from what he says. It may seem like a good thing now, but the long-term damage could be significant."

"That's not even taking into account your other symptoms," Ratchet put in. "The overclocked sensory systems, the changes in your color, the behavioral issues… something's seriously wrong, Hound, and we need to fix it now!"

"I don't WANT to be fixed!" Hound snapped. "I finally have an advantage on the battlefield, and suddenly it's a terrible thing? I don't think so. If this is a glitch or a damage of some kind, then I choose not to get it repaired."

"Hound!" Cosmos exclaimed despite himself. "You can't be serious!" He almost blurted out about the upcoming full moon, but managed to mute himself just in time.

"I know the risks," Hound went on, giving Cosmos a significant look. "And I choose to take them. For once I feel like I'm contributing something worthwhile to the Autobot cause, and I'm not going to sacrifice that. It may mean making adjustments… but I'm willing to do that."

Ratchet sputtered incoherently and looked beseechingly at Prime. The Autobot commander gave Hound a long look, then sighed deeply.

"I can't force you to seek treatment," he acknowledged, "so I won't."

Ratchet outright squawked indignantly at that.

"However," Prime went on, "if I feel your condition could affect the well-being of other Autobots – if it turns out to be contagious, or it increases your aggression to dangerous levels – then I can and will step in. Promise me you'll consider treatment should that happen."

Hound gave a single sharp nod. "Fine."

"That's all I ask." He gave a wave of his hand. "Dismissed. Prowl, make sure the brig is secure so we can transfer the Stunticons there once Ratchet has repaired them. Ironhide, gather a few of our stronger Autobots to aid in the transfer. Ratchet, you're dismissed, and for Primus' sake stop acting like I shot you in the foot already."

Ratchet stalked off with a grumble, and Prowl and Ironhide saluted before heading out. Hound was already gone – somehow he had slipped silently out while Cosmos had been listening to Prime.

"Sir… are you sure that was the right thing to do?" he asked.

Prime shook his head. "I don't know what to think anymore, Cosmos. Hound has been acting very erratically ever since we retrieved Dashboard's escape pod. I just hope it passes with time, or that he'll consent to accepting help very soon."

"Have you questioned Dashboard? Or done anything about him?" He still had a feeling that the gray mech knew more than he let on, and that he knew exactly what had bitten Hound and where it was lurking now.

"Dashboard has kept to himself since coming to the Ark," Prime replied. "He has turned down our offer to join the Autobots, and says he will be leaving at the end of this lunar cycle. And yes, we've talked to him several times. He knows nothing of what's affecting Hound."

"You don't think he gave Hound… whatever he has, right?" He didn't dare say "lycanthropy" yet – he feared even Prime wouldn't believe him.

"He has none of Hound's symptoms, so no," Prime replied. "At any rate, however, he soon won't be our problem." He folded his hands on his desk. "You had information on Skyspy's satellite network to present?"

"Oh!" Cosmos quickly gave a rundown of the current bout of repairs to the satellites, as well as an estimate on how long it would take before the system was in working order again. By the time he had finished his report, Prime seemed to have forgotten about the unsettling incident with Hound, and he dismissed the minibot without further discussion.

Cosmos, however, couldn't think of anything else BUT Hound the entire time, and he almost ran from the office, trying to track the scout down. He had to convince him to accept treatment somehow!

* * *

"Jazz, is the brig ready for… what the frag are you wearing?"

The saboteur looked up from his computer console. "Brig's shipshape an' ready, Prowl! Ready to take reservations! An' ya like it?" He stood and turned in place to model the red-and-black jumpsuit that had been tailored to fit the various curves of his chassis. "It's Michael Jackson's from his _Thriller_ music video!"

Prowl just shook his head and walked past Jazz to get to his own console. "I thought Halloween wasn't for two more nights."

"Hey, gotta test-run the costume somehow," Jazz pointed out. "Got ya one too. Mirage says he took your measurements in your sleep, so it should fit."

"I could easily have gone the rest of my life without knowing that," Prowl groaned, staring at the black-and-blue ensemble laid out on his chair. "What is that supposed to be anyhow?"

"Spock!" Jazz grinned. "From _Star Trek!_ Even got ya a set of ears!"

"I am NOT dressing as a fictional alien." He pushed the outfit onto the floor and sat down. "This whole holiday is ridiculous in my opinion."

"Aw, come on, Prowl, live it up a little!" Bumblebee insisted, walking in at that moment. The minibot spy seemed to be dressed for the occasion as well, his usual yellow paint job obscured by black and gray and with a queer black mask covering his entire helm and a good portion of his face.

"Batman," Prowl observed – at least that was one fictional entity he recognized. "Dare I ask who Robin is?"

"No Robin," Bumblebee replied, "but I think I've got Cliffjumper convinced to play Ironman. I know they're from different comic companies, but I still think they'd make a pretty good team."

"Is Seaspray gonna be Aquaman?" asked Jazz with a snicker.

"Yeah, I think all the minibots are going for a superhero theme," Bumblebee replied. "Powerglide's Superman, Beachcomber's Hawkeye, we finally talked Gears into being Captain America… I still don't know what Cosmos is going to be, though it'd probably be appropriate for him to play the Green Lantern, huh?"

Before Prowl could answer, two mechs strode into the control room. Their usual blue paint jobs were mostly covered up by dark suits, and each wore a hat and a pair of dark lenses over their optics. Before he could ask what in Primus' name they were doing, one of them spoke.

"Well," Tracks began, "it's a hundred and six light years to Cybertron, we got full tanks of gas, half a pack of energon goodies, it's dark… and we're wearing sunglasses."

Mirage nodded sharply. "Hit it."

Jazz cracked up laughing and clapped approvingly. "Way ta go, you two! Mission from Primus, I take it?"

Mirage nodded, smirking a bit. "If we're going to dress up for this holiday, we might as well do it with style, right? Not like a few other uncouth mechs we could mention."

"Let me guess," Prowl replied with a groan. "The twins. Do I dare ask what they're dressed as?"

"You'll find out," Tracks replied, just as the thunderous strains of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" filled the room. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker entered the room, headbanging with such force it was a wonder the shaggy wigs they were wearing didn't go flying off. Sideswipe, wearing a long black wig and a baseball cap, had Blaster in boombox form perched on one shoulder, and he threw up one hand in a gesture Prowl only knew as "horns" once he was sure they had everyone's attention.

"Party on, Garth!" he shouted.

"Party on, Wayne!" Sunstreaker replied, and he reached over to highfive his brother.

"Can everyone please stop coming into the control room to show off their costumes?" demanded Prowl. "This is neither the time nor the place for it!"

"Come now, Prowl, we've all been working hard. We can take a day to be a little bit silly, I think."

Prowl turned to respond to the Prime… and just about fell out of his chair. "Primus no… not you too!"

Prime just chuckled behind the false white beard that had been clipped to his mask, and adjusted his purple robes slightly. "All the same, I must agree with Prowl on one point – this is the control room, not the rec hall. Everyone except those on duty should leave."

Sideswipe huffed. "Spoilsports. C'mon Sunny, 'Raj, Tracks, let's go have a _Friday the 13_ _th_ movie marathon while we wait for the big day."

"Why not a halfway intelligent horror movie instead?" asked Tracks. "I hear _Cabin in the Woods_ is quite excellent."

"It's no match for the classics," Mirage countered. "I have a nice collection of Vincent Price if anyone cares to see something with sophistication…"

Prowl watched them go before turning back to Prime. "What ARE you dressed as anyhow?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, from the _Harry Potter_ books," he replied. "I thought about going as Gandalf, but Ironhide apparently beat me to it, so I changed ideas."

"Are we really going to go ahead with this party nonsense?" asked Prowl. "Even after what's been going on with Hound?"

"We can't simply put the entire base on lockdown because one mech is having issues, Prowl. I'm worried about him, but at the same time, he's made his decision about accepting help, and the most we can do now is keep an optic on him and intervene if things get out of hand. Besides, this may be exactly what he needs – a chance to unwind and relax a little. I'm sure this whole situation is stressful for him as well, and perhaps this will be what he needs."

"I hope you're right, sir. Though I have half a mind to assign him patrol on Halloween night. If this mystery condition of his has heightened his senses, we might as well get some use out of him."

"A rather cynical way to look at it, I suppose… but this army needs cynics as well as optimists." Prime chuckled softly. "Well, it's not as if we need a mech with super-sight to do patrols on Halloween. It's a full moon, that night, after all…"


	6. Chapter 6

Tonight.

The full moon was tonight, and Cosmos was running out of time. He had only hours to convince Hound to change his mind, and he still had to find the scout first. He'd never been so worried in his life… and the fact that the only people who believed him about Hound's condition were Sparkplug and Chip, neither of whom would be spending Halloween on the Ark, did nothing to help matters. If only he had some help in all this, an ally who believed his and Hound's story.

He yelped as the fallen log he'd been trying to use to cross a stream cracked and split, dumping him in the chilly water. He had so little experience on the ground – he was far more used to the wide-open reaches of space than the obstacle course that was Earth's natural landscape. At this rate it would take ages to track Hound down… and in the meantime he was making so much noise that it would be sparkling's play for Hound to hear him coming and avoid him.

Cosmos finally waded out of the stream and shook himself, sending water and mud in all directions. Then he reached into subspace and felt around… and sighed in relief when his fingers brushed the vial he'd stowed away. While Wheeljack was still in the "doubter" camp regarding the Horrorcon stories, he had humored Cosmos' request for a wolfsbane extract. Cosmos' explanation had been that he was planning a Van Helsing costume for tonight, and he wanted it to look as authentic as possible. It had seemed like a ludicrous excuse to his own audials, but somehow Wheeljack had bought it – then again, this was Wheeljack, the mech had probably built his own functioning proton pack to make his own costume more authentic.

His foot caught on an exposed tree root, and he toppled headlong into a tangle of blackberry bushes. He yelped and thrashed, trying to break free.

"Easy there, little guy, you're just making it worse."

Cosmos yelped again as something picked him up and yanked him free, then set him back down on his feet. The prickly bushes hadn't been enough to even scratch his paint, thankfully, but his armor was blotched with purple, almost like bruises, from the squashed berries.

"Thanks, Hound."

"No problem." Hound gave a faint smile. "I heard you following me, you know. You're not very good at being stealthy. But seeing as you're so determined to find me… well, here I am."

Cosmos nodded, and he blurted out what he'd come to say before he or Hound could change their minds. "Hound, we have it! The cure for your lycanthropy!"

Hound raised an optic ridge. "I find that hard to believe."

Cosmos fumbled in his subspace pocket and pulled out the vial. "That professor at the university was very helpful. There are certain plants that can cure lycanthropy, and Wheeljack was able to derive the most potent chemicals from one of them. And they're not toxic to our kind! This should work!"

"We don't know that," Hound countered. "Just because they work for humans – IF they work for humans – doesn't mean they'll work for us."

"But surely it's worth an attempt?" Cosmos insisted. "Hound, do you realize what you're going to turn into? You'll be a monster! You could hurt someone badly!"

Hound shook his head. "I know what's going to happen tonight, Cosmos. And don't worry. I've taken precautions."

"What do you mean?"

The scout raised his arm, and Cosmos spotted a mottled patch of a queer silvery-green material on his shoulder and upper arm. "See this? It's where I burned myself in the washracks."

Cosmos hissed in sympathy. "Are you all right? I didn't think the cleanser was hot enough to do that."

"It's not the heat – it's the chemicals. One of the active cleaning agents in our cleansers is silver nitrate." He sighed and lowered his arm. "It's why I've been avoiding the washracks all month – it took days for my self-repair systems to heal after that, and it left scars that I don't think can ever be healed. Still… it gave me an idea."

"Hound, listen to me…"

"I talked Grapple into repainting my quarters with a silver-tinted paint," Hound went on. "One with actual silver used in the making of it. About half an hour before the moon rises, I'll claim I don't feel well and lock myself in. That way I'm quarantined from the rest of the Ark until the full moon has passed."

Cosmos rebooted his optics in surprise. Hound had really thought this through, it seemed. "But… but why? Why do you refuse the cure when it's right here? Even if it doesn't work… we have to at least try, right?"

At that, Hound smiled… but it was a smile that chilled Cosmos to the core. It was somehow feral and wild, a smile that would look more at home on the face of a Dinobot or a Stunticon.

"Because I'm enjoying the abilities this has given me," he replied. "Because I'm tired of being kicked and pushed around on the battlefield, of my abilities being worthless in actual combat. For once I feel like a contributing member of the Autobots, able to hold my own in a fight… and everyone wants to take that away from me. Well, I'm not giving it up. Not if I can help it."

"Even if it means becoming a monster?" Cosmos asked. "Or worse… if it means long-term damage? Your self-repair systems…"

"So long as I give my nanobots something to do on a regular basis, I should be fine." And as if to prove his point, he drew a knife and slashed a long wound down his arm. "Don't worry, it looks worse than it is… and it keeps my self-repair systems busy. I've found ways to adapt to my condition, Cosmos. I'll be just fine."

Cosmos wanted to argue with him, but Hound seemed to be thwarting his arguments at every turn. Finally he just sighed deeply. "Please… please reconsider. You are my friend, and I don't want to see you hurt."

Hound's smile softened a bit. "You believed me from day one… and that alone means a great deal to me. Look… if I change my mind at all, you'll be the first mech I come to. Until then, don't worry about me. I'll be just fine."

And the scout patted Cosmos on the top of his helm before melting back into the trees.

Cosmos stared after Hound, wanting to chase after him, but in the end he just gave a whining sigh and went to retrace his steps back to the base. He had offered to help Hound, and he'd turned it down. There wasn't much he could do now but hope the scout would change his mind… maybe after his first transformation. He couldn't see how being forced into a beast form could be at all pleasant.

At least Hound had remained calm during their conversation… and he hadn't had to make use of what else lay tucked in his subspace. The silver-plated knife might not have done much good against someone much bigger than he was… but it might have at least bought him some time if Hound had attacked him. For now, though, he simply prayed he would never have to use it.

* * *

The party looked to be in full swing, and Prime smiled broadly behind his mask as he watched the festivities unfold around him. The common room had been decorated in shades of orange, violet, and black for the occasion, with spiders the size of a full-grown human hanging from the ceiling and holographic bats flitting about the room. Fake spider webs hung in gauzy white curtains amid the streamers, and jack-o-lanterns glowed on every table. In one corner Blaster, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and a wild curly wig to mimic the human singer Weird Al, worked the sound system, pumping out the "Time Warp" song from _Rocky Horror Picture Show._ In another corner Perceptor, wearing an odd mix of Victorian attire and clockwork gadgetry that he'd described as "steampunk," mixed energy drinks in vivid shades of orange and violet. Everyone looked to be enjoying themselves, which meant the night was, thus far, a wild success.

About the only thing that could spoil the night, Prime figured, was a Decepticon attack. But the Stunticons were securely locked away at the moment, and Megatron wasn't the sort of leader who would launch a rescue mission for his troops. More likely he would demand some sort of exchange for the combiner team at some point… but probably not tonight. Odds were that tonight would pass without any incident more severe than some drunken shenanigans from the twins.

Of Prime's officers, only two were currently absent – Hot Spot, whose team was guarding the brig, and Red Alert, who absolutely refused to leave his post despite all efforts to convince him to let someone else handle it for the night. Ratchet was engaged in a loud, half-drunken debate with Ironhide, his normally white paint an odd shade of greenish-bronze from his Cherno Alpha costume. Jazz was leading a group of mechs in the Time Warp dance, and Grimlock and his Dinobots bellowed and cackled from the corner they had staked out as their own. Prowl had just entered the room, and he looked like he was fighting a CPU-ache at the moment, but at least he was in attendance. He didn't see Silverbolt, but Fireflight had just darted by in a rather ridiculous-looking sailor outfit, so he assumed the Aerialbot leader was somewhere in the vicinity.

Prowl made his way through the crowd, sidestepping the Aerialbots – all of whom were dressed as one member or another of the Village People, Prime realized – before coming to stand beside Prime. His disgusted expression spoke volumes on his opinion of both the festivities and the costume Jazz had foisted onto him.

"I see you finally decided to dress up," Prime noted with a chuckle.

"Let it be known I'm doing this under extreme duress," Prowl muttered. "I'm going to have Jazz's head for this."

Prime chuckled. "Relax a little, Prowl. A little dressing up in costume never killed anyone."

"There's always a first time."

"Stop sounding like Gears and have a little fun." He handed Prowl an orange energon cube. "I trust we have mechs guarding the brig?"

Prowl nodded and sipped from the cube. "The Protectobots are taking the first shift, and the Aerialbots will relieve them halfway through the party. They refused to change out of their costumes for guard duty, though, so they're getting some catcalls from the Stunticons."

"I'll bet that's a sight to see," Prime laughed. "It sounds as if everything's under control."

Prowl snorted. "As under control as it can be." He finished off his cube and set it aside. "I assigned Hound to patrol like you requested, but he claims to be suffering from a glitch and has retired to his quarters for the evening. He won't respond to any radio inquiries either."

That drew a frown from Prime. Had his mysterious illness gotten suddenly worse? "We should send someone to his quarters to make sure he's all right. Given recent events, I would rather play it safe than just assume everything's all right."

"Already taken care of. Cosmos volunteered to check on him."

"Good… very good." Prime felt the knot of tension in his spark ease slightly. "I don't see Dashboard. I take it our guest opted out of the festivities?"

"He left earlier this evening. Apparently he's opted to strike out on his own rather than remain allied with the Autobots."

Prime sighed softly. He didn't want to force anyone to join the Autobots, and he had promised the neutral that they wouldn't punish him if he decided not to ally himself with their cause. Still, Dashboard would have made a fine Autobot, and he feared that just because he wouldn't wear the Autobot crest didn't mean that Megatron would leave him unmolested.

"Oh for the love of Primus," Prowl groaned, cutting into Prime's train of thought. "Jazz, please don't do this."

Prime glanced up… and burst out laughing. Jazz, the twins, Bluestreak (wearing what Prime guessed was Hans' outfit from the recent _Frozen_ movie), and Blaster were in the middle of the rec room, and the saboteur was talking everyone through the dance steps to the "Thriller" dance. Laughter and cheers echoed through the room, and even the dancers themselves were laughing and carrying on as they did their best to imitate Jazz's moves.

"That looks like fun," Prime noted.

"It looks ridiculous," Prowl muttered. "Don't they have any sense of dignity… sir? Sir, please don't…"

Too late. Prime had already stepped out on the dance floor, and Jazz grinned and darkened one side of his visor in a wink as he stepped aside to let their leader join in.

Prowl just rolled his optics and went to Perceptor's table for another drink. Primus dammit, was he the only mech on this ship who maintained some sense of professionalism?

* * *

Hound wouldn't allow himself to relax until the silver-painted doors had hissed shut behind him, the lock clicking into place. He'd made it… and with fifteen minutes to spare until moonrise. He would be secure for the night, and the Autobots would be safe.

Some small part of him wouldn't stay quiet, raging at him for not accepting Cosmos' offer of help. _What the frag are you doing,_ it nagged in the back of his CPU. _You're an idiot! You're putting the Autobots in unnecessary danger doing this! And you think you can get away with this every time? You can't keep this hidden forever – Cosmos might tell someone, and they might actually believe him… or someone might come in and blow your cover. What are you going to do then?_

He wanted to argue with that annoying voice of reason, but found he really couldn't. He was being reckless, and he knew that – his new abilities came at a heavy price, and he knew few Autobots would consider his heightened senses and healing abilities worth being turned into a Horrorcon once a month. And if he was discovered, there was a possibility that they would deem him too dangerous to save…

 _No,_ he thought. _Prime wouldn't terminate one of his own troops. He's always looked out for our welfare._ Still, he couldn't forget that Prime had been among those who had refused to believe his Horrorcon story…

_Dammit, Hound, just let it go already. How long are you going to hold this grudge? Would you have believed someone that came running into the base with some tale about being attacked by a monster?_

He sat down on the berth and rubbed at his temples, wincing as pain stabbed through his CPU. A sign of his upcoming change, or just stress? Maybe a combination of both. Though part of him did wonder if staying indoors would save him from the change, if only actual moonlight could spark the shift…

"I thought you'd never show up."

Hound glanced up sharply. "What the…" How could someone have come into his room without him noticing?

A gunmetal-gray form stepped out of the corner of the room, smirking slightly. "You've found out by now that your abilities can help you hide yourself quite well… almost as good as a cloaking device, isn't it?" He chuckled softly. "Then again, I see you've been enjoying your newfound abilities very much. That pleases me."

Hound drew his gun, aiming it at Dashboard's chest. "Get out of my room!"

The neutral raised an optic ridge. "I would love to, but you've sort of made escape impossible at the moment. Put that down, why don't you, and let's have a chat."

Hound kept the gun trained on Dashboard. "So I was right all along… you're a Horrorcon. A lycanthrope. A werewolf."

Dashboard gave a grin that showed off a remarkably sharp set of dental plates. "Got it right on all counts. I was wondering how long it would take you and your little green friend to connect the dots." He took a step closer, ignoring the pistol. "Yes… it would seem lycanthropy is not a disease limited to organics. About a vorn ago, scouts from a neutral colony ventured onto this world and came back with bite marks from a rather vicious organic monster. None of us thought much about it… until the moon of the planet we had claimed as our own reached its fullest phase, and sparked a terrible change."

Hound's hand spasmed once, pain lancing down his arm, but he clenched his jaw and kept the weapon pointed at Dashboard. "You were a scout, weren't you?"

"No… I was not part of that party. Rather, I was a survivor of the ensuing massacre once the change came into effect. The Horrorcons tore apart the colony, and whoever wasn't killed was bitten… and made part of the pack." He chuckled again. "Really, though, it was simply a matter of weeding the weakest and slowest, and granting unimaginable power to the strongest. It was for the best."

His hand jolted with pain, and he dropped the gun, gripping his wrist. Dashboard's grin softened slightly.

"Yes, the first time you change is always the hardest," he noted in a tone that could almost be called sympathetic. "Don't worry, it doesn't last long."

"Why… why did you do this?" Hound groaned, trying to keep his optics on Dashboard despite the pain forcing them out of focus. "Why… I didn't… didn't do anything to you…"

"You really don't get it, do you?" Dashboard noted. "This isn't about revenge, or pure sadism. This is about expanding the pack. Think about it – Cybertronians with heightened abilities, incapable of being permanently damaged, able to move like shadows and take down their foes effortlessly. We'd be an unstoppable force, one that not even Prime or Megatron could take down. Why… we could return to our homeworld, and end the war once and for all. We could even rule it, and to the Pit with the Matrix!"

Hound gave a sharp cry and hunched over as every strut in his body screamed in pain, as if an unfathomable pressure were cracking and crushing the metal of his chassis. His vision whited out, his audials roared, his entire neural net crackled and burned with agony. Through the haze of pain he could feel hands on his shoulders, almost as if Dashboard were trying to comfort him.

"Yesssssss," he hissed, cackling. "Oh yes, let it happen. Don't fight the change, Hound… accept it. Revel in it. You're one of us now… one of the pack. Together we can change others, gather followers, and become an unstoppable force. Even the precious Prime is powerless against us."

Hound cried out in pain… a cry that became a ringing howl that reverberated from the walls of his quarters. He sprang to his feet, awkward on legs that suddenly bent backwards at the knees. His jaws jutted in a canine muzzle in front of his face, drooling oral lubricant from between jagged dental plates that mimicked vicious fangs. A burning hunger roiled in his tanks… a hunger not for fuel, but for hot oil and metal, for squirming prey beneath his claws…

His optics snapped back into focus, taking in the sight of the changed Dashboard. The gunmetal Horrorcon gave a fanged grin, optics flaring violet, and delivered an eerie howl of his own. Hound answered with a baying call of his own, all rational thought shunted to the back of his CPU. Nothing mattered now – not the Autobots, not his own vow to remain locked in his quarters. Only the hunt commanded his thoughts. Only the hunt mattered.

Dashboard snarled, and Hound pinned his audial receptors back but lowered his head in acknowledgment. The gray Horrorcon was his superior, his alpha. He would obey him… for now.

Fists pounded on the door, and a thickly accented voice drifted through the thick metal.

"Hound? Hound, are you all right in there? Answer me!"

Something about that voice seemed familiar… but Hound shoved the memory aside. This wasn't a member of the pack, and therefore it must be prey. Something to hunt, to chase, and to finally tear apart…

"Hound, I'm coming in! Stand back!" And the door slid open.


	7. Chapter 7

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies that this didn't get finished before Halloween - technical problems and a convention got in the way. Hopefully this story is still enjoyable even if it's not exactly on time for the holiday..._

Despite the insistence of the other minibots, Cosmos couldn't bring himself to attend the Halloween party in the rec room. Not that he was averse to having fun and socializing – though he always found himself hopelessly awkward around crowds, and even among his comrades he found himself putting his foot into his vocalizer far too many times for his comfort. But right now it felt wrong to be out celebrating when a friend of his was undergoing a crisis, even if he refused to acknowledge it as such. And he wanted to be available should Hound need him, or change his mind regarding a possible cure.

He paced the hallway just outside Hound's quarters, fidgeting nervously. He was so frantic with worry over the scout that he hadn't even stopped to hit the washracks, and dirt and berry stains still covered his armor. Part of him wanted to disregard everything Hound had told him and just rush into the room, inject him with the antidote, and ask forgiveness later. But part of him wanted to respect his friend's wishes, and not interfere unless he asked for help.

 _You've got to have faith in him,_ he insisted. _He's taken precautions, and seems to know what he's doing._ But that thought did nothing to dispel the nagging feeling of dread in his tanks.

Hushed voices reached his audials through the door, and he paused in his pacing. The voices were too soft for him to make out more than generic murmuring, but they made his spark freeze anyhow. Hound should be alone in his room, right? Then why were there two voices coming from his room?

Before he could puzzle out who the other speaker might be, Hound cried out in pain… a cry that morphed into a snarl even as Cosmos listened, his entire chassis frozen in horror. The snarling and whining continued for a good minute… then terminated in an eerie howl that sent shivers up and down his spinal array. That howl was followed up by another, until it sounded like two voices baying in unison, crying out to a full moon that was invisible to their optics but exerting its sinister influence nonetheless.

Cosmos finally forced his vocalizer to work, his voice coming out in a rough squeak: "Hound? Hound, are you all right in there? Answer me!"

A low, wet-sounding snarl was his only answer.

Cosmos took a deep intake, then reached into his subspace pocket, pulling out the dagger and the syringe of belladonna extract. Armed with one item in each hand, he braced himself for whatever was to come.

"Hound, I'm coming in! Stand back!" And he opened the door, both grateful and worried that Hound had forgotten to lock it.

He thought he was prepared for what he'd see on the other side… but he was so wrong. Two hunched, lupine forms glowered out of the dim room at him, wicked violet eyes gleaming in long canine faces, drool streaming from their fanged jaws. They were vaguely humanoid, but with digitigrade legs and clawed hands, and armor that bristled in points as if to mimic fur and pointed ears. One, a dark green beast with gray and tan markings, could only be Hound… but the other was gunmetal-and-black, with a peculiar cannon mounted on one shoulder…

 _Dashboard!_ Of course… it all made sense now! Why hadn't they stopped to guess that Dashboard might not just know more about the Horrorcon that attacked Hound, but might actually BE the Horrorcon? He had been telling the truth – he hadn't shared his escape pod with another being. He hadn't had to – the Horrorcon lurked inside his spark, just waiting for the lunar cycle to allow him to emerge and infect others.

A guttural snarl interrupted his thoughts, and Hound padded forward, air huffing through his vents as he sniffed at the green minibot. Cosmos' tanks turned to jelly as he felt hot, moist air gust over his chassis. Something seemed to flicker in the green Horrorcon's optics… indecision? Recognition?

"Hound… Hound, it's me," he murmured, his voice high and quiet with fear. He didn't want to believe Ms. Budiansky's insistence that his friend wouldn't remember him now that he was a werewolf – he wanted to think that some measure of the gentle scout he had known for so long still existed in that savage body, that there was something still in his friend worth saving.

Dashboard growled, and Hound's audial receptors pinned back as his gaze flickered between Cosmos and the gray Horrorcon. His body tensed as if to spring, but there was confusion in his optics.

"Hound, please, let me help you," Cosmos insisted. "I can fix this… I can make you better. Please, let me save you."

Hound cocked his head, looking remarkably like a turbohound trying to decipher his master's words and decide whether to obey or not. Cosmos felt his spark lift a bit. Had some part of Hound heard him, and was fighting back against the beast within?

Dashboard gave a snarling bark and lashed out, cuffing Hound over the ear. Hound yipped in pain and shook himself, then curled his lip plates in a savage snarl. Cosmos backed away, dagger in hand but spark valiantly praying that he wouldn't have to use it…

The gray lycanthrope barked again, and Hound growled in reply and leaped. Cosmos cried out in terror… only for the dark green Horrorcon to sail over his head in a single bound and lope off down the corridor, Dashboard right on his heels. The two Horrorcons skidded around the corner and vanished.

Cosmos stared after them for a moment, stunned. Had Hound's memory won out? Or had the two of them just decided he wasn't worth attacking? Probably the latter…

Then the horror of the situation finally hit home. Two Horrorcons were loose in the base, free to infect others, and the entire base was completely unaware of it.

"Oh no," he moaned, and took off as fast as his short legs could carry him. He sent off a radio call as he went, hoping beyond hope that someone would believe him.

_We're under attack! Horrorcons in the base! One of them is Hound – don't hurt him, please!_

* * *

When Cosmos' voice sounded over the radio, babbling some hysterical nonsense about Horrorcons, everyone's first reaction was to write it off as a Halloween prank. Even the officers rolled their optics and went about their business. They'd heard so much talk about Horrorcons lately that they were sick of it, and Hound and Cosmos' insistence on keeping the ridiculous story going was getting old.

But two snarling forms bursting into the rec room couldn't exactly be ignored.

"Nice costume, Hound-" Bumblebee began, but shrieked and backpedaled as razor-sharp fangs closed mere inches from his plating. "Holy hexagon nuts!"

"What th' slag?" Ironhide gaped.

Prime, for his part, managed to throw off his shock and pull his gun from subspace, training it on the two beasts that had just burst into the room. Hound and Cosmos had been right all along – he could only hope that their dismissal of the two mechs' claims wouldn't get someone killed.

The gray Horrorcon charged the drink table, upending it and sending multicolored energon flying in all directions. Perceptor had one hand raised and his mouth frozen open, as if he were about to launch into an explanation as to why what he was seeing was scientifically impossible, but the werewolf closed the gap between them and lunged, clawed hands raised.

A horrible bellow filled the room, drowning out the music, and Grimlock charged the Horrorcon, head lowered and flame spewing from his jaws. It yelped in pain as the Dinobot commander bowled it over, then gave a roaring howl of its own and laid into the other mech. Grimlock and the werewolf rolled and twisted on the floor, biting and clawing, shreds of Grimlock's Godzilla costume coming free and littering the floor. The other Dinobots swarmed in, surrounding the combatants in a loose ring, ready to leap to their leader's aid should it look like he would lose this fight.

Satisfied that the Dinobots had that creature under control for the moment, Prime turned his attention to the green Horrorcon. The werewolf snapped at any who got close, and already shreds of someone's costume (Jazz's judging by the shiny red look of it) were caught in its teeth. Blackened char marks blotted its plating where mechs had already taken shots at it, but even as Prime watched the burns faded before his optics, holes in its plating sealing as if it had never been wounded in the first place.

 _Just shooting at it isn't going to kill it,_ he realized. _Unless we aim for the head… surely it can't come back from total CPU obliteration…_

The werewolf turned to face him, a ravenous grin on its long jaws. Prime took aim and tightened his finger on the trigger as the creature tensed to spring, ready to put a plasma blast through its ugly cranial unit.

The Matrix flared hotly in his chest, and he hesitated for a brief moment. He jolted in surprise, and just a hint of anger. This creature was a threat to his troops – why should he stay his hand?

Before he could shake off the feeling – and before the Horrorcon could charge – something skidded between them, arms raised as if to try to shield each combatant from the other's wrath.

"No!" Cosmos shouted. "Don't hurt him!"

"You were right, Cosmos," Prime told him. "It was a Horrorcon all along. Now stand aside!"

"That's Hound!" Cosmos insisted. "Don't shoot!"

Prime stared at the Horrorcon in disbelief… and spotted a golden-tan marking on its shoulder. It was blurred and hard to make out, but it appeared to be a star… the same star Hound sported on his shoulder.

 _Hound… oh Primus, what happened to you?_ He had known the scout had been changing over the past few weeks, but he had no idea THIS would come of it. He had no idea one of his own Autobots had been turning into a monster right under his olfactory sensor. Now the question remained – could they undo this, or was it too late to save him?

Hound snarled and hunched down on all fours, pawing the floor and gouging scratches out of it. Cosmos turned slowly around to face him, hands still raised.

"I know you can understand me, Hound," he murmured. "I know you're still in there. Please… fight it. You're stronger than you think!"

Hound whined and shook his head, sending drops of slaver flying in all directions.

"Prime, orders?" Prowl slid in by Prime's side, acid rifle aimed at the Horrorcon. Ironhide flanked him on the other side, and other Autobots had moved to pen Hound in, guns trained on him.

"Hold your fire!" Prime ordered. "He's our ally! We have to reason with him!"

"How d'ya expect us to reason with a monster?" demanded Ironhide.

"This is no monster," Prime retorted. "It's Hound!"

Prowl turned to stare at Prime. "That can't be…" His voice trailed off as he took in the creature's dark green plating, and the markings on his chassis that had once been yellow. "Primus below… it is."

"Holy scrap, Hound, you got ugly!" Sideswipe observed rather unhelpfully.

Cosmos ignored the chatter around him, approaching Hound with his hands outstretched. Hound, too, seemed completely oblivious to the ring of mechs around him, optics fixed on the green minibot. It was as if the two mechs were the only beings in the room. Weapons lowered slowly as everyone watched the encounter, though no one relaxed. Even Prime remained tense and wary – there were so many ways this could go wrong, and Hound or not, he had no intention of letting this creature tear Cosmos apart.

"You're not a monster," Cosmos told him gently. "You're still Hound. You're still our friend… you don't want to do this. You don't want to hurt anyone. I know it, and you know it."

Hound whined again, audial receptors pinned back.

"Let us help you," Cosmos urged. "We can fix this. I know you didn't want this, not really. We can help you… we can make this all better."

The scout stared fixedly at Cosmos, trembling from helm to foot. He slunk forward a step, and Cosmos pulled something from subspace – a medical syringe, meant for delivering stimulants or antitoxins into a mech's fuel or fluid lines. Prime wanted to ask what the minibot intended to give him, but decided that for now, questions were best saved until after the crisis has been averted.

A howl filled the room, and Jazz yelped as the gray Horrorcon tackled him to the floor. The beast snarled and slavered as it clamped the saboteur's arm in its jaws, biting down hard. Jazz yelped again in pain and tried to pry the monster's teeth out of his armor, but it hung on grimly.

Before Prime could fire off a shot, Hound acted. He whirled and sprang with impossible swiftness, a feral bellow tearing from his throat. Prime swung his gun around and fired a shot at Hound now, hoping to draw his attention away from Jazz. Frag it all, had his hesitation cost him Jazz's life now?

But it wasn't Jazz Hound was gunning for – it was his fellow Horrorcon. The two beasts went rolling across the floor, gray and green flashing as they tore ate each other, claws and fangs squealing against armor and rending metal and tubing, savage growls interspersed with yips of pain filling the air. Jazz scrambled to his feet and backed away, clutching his wounded arm.

"Do something!" Cosmos demanded. "Shoot the gray one! Shoot Dashboard!"

Dashboard… so the neutral had been lying to them all this time. And he hadn't left the base at all, but had stayed on to encourage Hound to rampage. That should have shocked Prime… but he'd received enough shocks tonight that this didn't even faze him.

"We can't," Prowl replied in a grave tone.

"But he'll kill Hound!" Cosmos insisted.

"And we risk shooting Hound if we shoot at Dashboard," Prowl countered.

Cosmos didn't argue that, though he stared at the combatants in horror. Then, to Prime's shock, he bolted forward.

"Cosmos!" Prime dropped his gun and lunged, intent on grabbing the minicon and pulling him to safety. Their mistakes might have already cost them Hound, but he would be slagged before he let Cosmos get hurt because of this.

* * *

Cosmos didn't even stop to think – he dove into the fray and grabbed at the jagged armor of the nearest Horrorcon, trying to pry the combatants apart. He had just gotten through to Hound, and Dashboard had to interfere! He wasn't going to let the neutral turn Hound into a full-on monster… not even if it cost him his life.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and tried to yank him back, but he wrapped his arms around Hound's neck and clung with all his strength. Hound didn't even seem to notice him, but continued to tear and claw at his foe. Gaping rents lay open in both mechs' armor, but even as Cosmos watched they began to stitch themselves closed, leaving their armor stained with fluids but free of any sort of scar or weld mark. There seemed to be no possible end to this fight… not unless both mechs finally collapsed from fluid loss…

A final yank, and Cosmos felt his grip loosen.

"Cosmos, get out of there!" Prime ordered, and pulled him back.

"No!" Cosmos made another grab, and his hands found Hound's right arm. His fingers slipped briefly on the slick, silvery-green material of his scars…

 _Silver… the dagger!_ He released Hound and let Prime pull him back… and pulled the dagger out of subspace. The moment Prime's grip relaxed, he jerked free and charged.

Pain erupted in his weapon-arm, and he found himself staring up into the wild, furious gaze of Dashboard. This was far more than oil-lust or hunger – the neutral's optics burned with rage at Cosmos for interfering with his plot, whatever it might be. And he had no intention of turning Cosmos as he had turned Hound – he was going to rend the minibot limb from limb.

"Not today, mutt," Cosmos muttered, the words coming out with more bravado than he felt. "Today… you go to the Pit."

Dashboard's optics flared brighter, and he clenched his jaws, driving his fangs deeper into Cosmos' arm. Cosmos forced back a pained cry and scrambled with his free hand, switching the dagger to his good arm. The Horrorcon swatted at him, trying to bat the weapon away, but withdrew his paw with a muffled whine when the silver edge sliced into his plating.

"This is for Hound," Cosmos grunted… and drove the dagger into Dashboard's shoulder.

The gray Horrorcon gave a piercing howl, releasing his grip on the minibot. Cosmos yanked the dagger free and stabbed again, hitting him in the neck. The metal parted easily beneath the blade, the edges of the wound sizzling as if he had been struck by acid. Claws raked at Cosmos' chassis as Dashboard fought back, but pain and rage blinded him, and most of his blows did little more than scratch his paint.

Cosmos struck one last time, burying the blade to the hilt in Dashboard's chest, then staggered back. Someone grabbed his shoulders, and he flailed briefly before realizing it was Ratchet.

Dashboard thrashed wildly on the floor of the rec room, smoke rising from his chassis and fluids streaking the floor. Then, as abruptly as if someone had hit a switch, he stilled, a final gurgling intake of air leaving his vents. The wild, hateful light in his optics dimmed, the violet shifting to blue before finally fading to gray.

Hound padded forward and nudged the body with his muzzle, as if ensuring the mech was really dead. Then he looked up at Cosmos and gave a soft whine. He couldn't speak… but his optics and that simple sound seemed to say "Thank you."

Cosmos was torn between telling him "you're welcome" and chewing him out for not listening to him in the first place. He settled for passing out in Ratchet's arms, the pain of his damages and the enormity of all that had just happened catching up to him at last.

* * *

"All of this could have been avoided in the first place if we had all just sat down and TALKED about it!" Ratchet snapped, making a final tweak to Cosmos' wiring before shutting his shoulder panel. "Instead of everyone being all mopey and secretive on us!"

"This all could have been avoided in the first place if people would have just listened and not dismissed everything they heard right away," Hound countered mildly, rubbing at his arm.

"Enough," Prime chided. "Accusations will get us nowhere. The important thing is that we've dealt with the crisis."

The Halloween party had come to a rather abrupt end right after Hound and Dashboard's fight – there were few party killers quite as potent as a deactivated chassis in the middle of the dance floor. Somehow, in all the chaos of the aftermath as everyone tried to figure out just what the slag had happened, Prime had found the syringe in Cosmos' hand… and, trusting that Cosmos had known what he was doing, he had approached Hound and managed to inject him with the belladonna dose.

By the time Cosmos had come back online, Hound was back to normal, and Ratchet was busy patching up the mechs who had been bitten or clawed during the battle. Just to be on the safe side, he had ordered Wheeljack to whip up three more batches of the extract to dose Cosmos, Jazz, and Grimlock. None of them had shown any of Hound's symptoms, but all the same, Ratchet was going to keep them in the medbay, under close watch, until they were sure they weren't infected.

Cosmos, for his part, felt only relief that the whole mess was over. Hound was back to normal, and the Horrorcon responsible for his transformation was dead. And if he ever heard another mention of werewolves or lycanthropy in his lifetime, it would be too soon.

"Prime, sir?" Hound said nervously. "I owe you an apology."

Prime shook his head. "No, Hound… we owe you an apology. You have always been honest with us, and we should not have dismissed your story out of hand. We could have put a stop to this much sooner if we had simply trusted you in the first place."

"But sir… I knew what was wrong, and I avoided treatment for it despite Cosmos finding out how to help me. If I'd just consented to that, we could have avoided all this. But I didn't… and Autobots got hurt. For that… for that I'll accept whatever punishment you have in store for me."

Prime considered that a moment. "May I ask why you didn't seek treatment?"

Hound sighed deeply. "Because, despite the drawbacks… I liked the additional powers being a Horrorcon gave me. I… I finally felt like a warrior. Something useful to the Autobot cause."

Prime's optics softened at that. "Hound… you were already useful to the Autobot cause. You may not be the most powerful fighter among us, but it takes more than fighters to win a war. It takes scientists, tacticians, medics, spies… and scouts. You've always been the best at what you do, and that makes you invaluable to us. Never forget that."

Hound sighed again, but a bit of a smile crossed his faceplate. "I guess I did let myself forget that, sir. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. For now… I'm aware that Cosmos took on extra patrol duties in exchange for information on how to help cure your condition. I think you taking over those patrols for him is adequate punishment."

"Yes, sir." Hound gave Cosmos a smile. "I owe Cosmos that much anyhow. For not giving up on me, and for believing me. Cosmos… thank you."

Cosmos' faceplates heated up behind his mask, and he squirmed in embarrassment on the berth. "Aw, Hound… I was just trying to help a friend."

"Hold still if you want to help a medic," Ratchet grumped. "I'm just glad this whole mess is over with. Primus save me from trying to treat werewolf bites again."

"With any luck, we won't have to deal with Horrorcons again anytime soon," Prime replied. "All the same, now that we know a colony of them exist, we'll need to be extra vigilant. At least we know how to combat them now."

"Kinda wish I coulda seen your fight against th' Stunticons, Hound," Jazz put in from his berth, laughing a little. "Bet that was a sight t' see. Shame we won't get t' see it again."

Hound shrugged a bit. "I have to admit… being able to take down Motormaster and his cronies was pretty satisfying. Speaking of them, though… what's being done with them?"

At that, Prime looked pained. "They escaped during the fight in the rec room."

"Aw, fraggit," Ratchet snapped. "So we didn't even get a capture out of this whole mess! Having the Stunts out of the picture would have been at least one bright spot…"

* * *

"Megatron's going to have our heads on a pike for this," whimpered Breakdown.

"Shut up already," Wildrider snapped. "Not like he's gonna believe that a scout kicked our afts anyhow."

The Stunticons were gathered at the mouth of a saltwater bay near the city of Tillamook, taking a brief rest before continuing on to the Decepticon base. They were all exhausted, dirty, and still covered in dings and dents from their ill-fated fight against Hound. The fact that they had made it this far without incident wasn't much consolation, as they all knew they were in for a verbal thrashing at the very least when they finally made it back to the Nemesis.

"What do we tell Megatron, boss?" asked Dragstrip, pulling a broken pine branch out of his elbow joint.

"We'll come up with somethin'," Motormaster replied. "Somethin' a little more believable than that Hound took us all out. If anyone hears that a mech that frickin' Laserbeak can take out without any problem beat us in a fight, we'll be laughingstocks."

"Don't the Decepticons laugh at us on a regular basis already?" Dead End pointed out.

"Oh, hush," Motormaster snapped. "You're not helping."

Dead End might have made some half-snarky, half-fatalistic comment right then… had an eerie howl not split the night. All five Stunticons turned to stare in the direction the cry had come from, as if trying to spot the maker for themselves. It was no use – despite the full moon illuminating the night, whatever had given that mournful cry was hidden somewhere in the trees.

Breakdown shivered. "Let's go… I don't like this place."

"Oh, come on," Motormaster huffed. "Don't tell me you're scared of a wolf. What's the worst it can do to us anyhow?"

"Haven't you seen those human movies?" Breakdown demanded. "Wolves are terrifying! Especially when the moon's in its fullest phase!"

"Those are purest fiction, Breakdown," Dead End assured him. "Though that's not to say that there aren't worse horrors lurking out there in the night…"

"Shut up all of you!" Motormaster growled. "Don't make me start banging heads together!"

The Stunticons were so caught up in their argument that they didn't see the gleam of violet optics shining from the shadows of the trees… or the glint of moonlight on silver fangs…


End file.
